Maybe after the war, he told himself firmly.
“The Indians aren't likely to back down,” he said. He understood the reasoning, but it ran the risk of compromising military victory. And yet, thanks to their unwanted escorts, it would be very hard to surprise the Indians. “Politicians.”
“Probably not,” Susan agreed. “They’d save their ships, they’d save their men, but they’d lose their prestige.”
“Funny,” James observed. “That’s how we feel too.”
He sighed, inwardly. It had been so much easier, he reflected once again, when they’d been fighting the Tadpoles. At least they hadn't had to worry about being knifed in the back ...
Until the Russians proved us wrong, he reminded himself. Humanity is more than capable of fighting itself as well as an alien foe.
Chapter Nineteen
New Delhi, India
“Are you sure you’re up to this?”
Ambassador Joelle Richardson nodded impatiently. She’d been injured on Vesy, when the uprising had begun, but she’d had plenty of time to recuperate. It had been a surprise when she’d been told she would be carrying the message to the Indians, yet it made a certain amount of sense. The Indians would get her message, true, but they’d also understand that her presence was a message, a warning that the uprising on Vesy was neither forgiven nor forgotten. One way or the other, the Indians would pay a price for the deaths ...
And, of course, for the damage they’d done to the Vesy, she thought. They were on the verge of all-out war when we left.
She pushed the thought out of her mind as the car came to a halt outside the Prime Minister’s residence, New Delhi. It was an impressive building, she had to admit; the original building had been destroyed by a suicide bomber during the Age of Unrest and the Indians had rebuilt it bigger and better than ever. They’d also added layer upon layer of additional protection, MI6 had informed her; the building was designed to survive a nuke at close range. The handful of shootings, bombings and one attempted missile attack hadn’t done more than scratch the paint.
“I’m fine,” she said. “It won’t take very long.”
“Good luck,” her driver said, as they were waved into a parking slot. “I’ll be here.”
Joelle nodded and checked her appearance in the mirror. Her face looked pale - her brown hair had had to be regrown hastily - yet she looked businesslike. The formal suit she wore, despite the heat, made her look mannish, but there was little choice. Wearing a loose dress would have conveyed entirely the wrong expression. She pasted a dispassionate expression on her face, then keyed a switch. The door opened, allowing her to step out onto the concrete. It was hotter than she’d expected - sweat started to trickle down her back - but it was surprisingly cool compared to Vesy.
“Ambassador,” a female voice said. She looked up to see a young dark-skinned woman wearing a long sari. “The Prime Minister is waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” Joelle said. “Lead on, please.”
She followed the young woman - barely out of her teens, at a guess - through a handful of security scanners and up a long flight of stairs. The air conditioning was welcome; she breathed a sigh of relief as the air suddenly became a great deal cooler. It was impossible, she was sure, for anyone to work in the heat. The paperwork would probably melt, if nothing else. Her lips twitched at the thought; she fought to keep them under control, knowing that a smile could be disastrous. The guide stopped outside a pair of wooden doors, knocked once and then opened them for her. Joelle nodded her thanks and stepped into the office.
Prime Minister Singh was older than she, Joelle recalled from the file. She’d never actually met him in person before. He was paler than his assistant, a dull reminder that caste and open racism still cast a long shadow over India. Joelle had read, once, that Islam had offered better opportunities to those of the lower castes, accounting for some level of distrust between the upper and lower castes. India still banned the treatments that changed skin colour permanently, she recalled. It wouldn't do for the lower castes to start aping their betters.
And to think they claim to have overcome the sins of the past, she thought, coldly. But then, the Troubles caused us to regress too.
She shook the Indian Prime Minister’s hand, shortly. It was easy to understand why the Indians wanted to be considered a Great Power. The tacit agreement - that the Great Powers were completely independent, free even of criticism, within their own territory - would save them the brunt of moralistic outrage. And the fact that most of that outrage would be largely hypocritical wouldn't make them any more inclined to take it seriously. But their plans had caused an alien uprising and cost thousands of lives. They couldn't be allowed to get away with it.
“Ambassador Richardson,” Singh said. “Ambassador Begum spoke highly of you.”
“I’m sure she did,” Joelle said. Ambassador Rani Begum had stalled on Vesy, delaying any international agreements until the Indians held the whip hand. No doubt Rani had reported that Joelle was a soft touch or something equally unpleasant. “I remember her well.”
Singh smiled, coolly. “I assume you weren't sent here to discuss pleasantries or remember old friends,” he said. “And, as you’re here, you’re definitely speaking for your superiors.”
Joelle kept her annoyance off her face. On Vesy, she’d had a great deal of practical authority; on Earth, she was little more than a puppet, repeating the words of the Prime Minister. There was no way to escape the datanet, or the simple fact that the Prime Minister could change his mind and issue new orders at the drop of a hat. She had a feeling, based on her experience, that the Prime Minister had simply grown too used to the idea of being able to command events at will, but there was nothing she could do about it now.
“I am,” she said. She cleared her throat. “You have committed acts of aggression against the possessions and personnel of Great Britain. There is no room to debate your acts. None of the excuses you have offered justify, for a moment, either the conquests of British territories or the deaths of British personnel. We will not - we cannot - surrender any of your ill-gotten gains to you.”
Singh’s expression darkened, but he said nothing.
“This is our formal response to your ultimatum. Withdraw your ships from Pegasus, Cromwell and Vesy. The first two will be returned to their true owners; the latter will be placed under international supervision until the Vesy are ready to claim authority in their own system. If you choose to do so now, Britain will agree to recognise India as a Great Power.”
She’d argued against making any sort of concessions to the Indians, but the Prime Minister - understanding his counterpart better than either of them would have cared to admit - had insisted they had to offer the Indians something. Joelle had tried to argue that recognition as a Great Power wasn’t enough, if they had to make a concession, yet there wasn't much else they could concede without undermining the whole rationale for the war. It was a tiny fig-leaf to satisfy the doves in Parliament that, she was sure, wouldn't satisfy anyone else.
“If you refuse to abandon your conquests, if you refuse to order your ships to withdraw, there will be no further talks,” she continued, after a moment. “Your forces will be unceremoniously evicted from Cromwell and Pegasus, using all necessary force. We will do whatever we have to do to ensure that you no longer pose a threat to us or interplanetary peace.”
Singh met her eyes. “Is that everything?”
“That is the formal message,” Joelle said. “The Prime Minister, however, asked me to remind you about the dangers of both gambling with the future of India and the future of the entire human race.”
“He is the one launching the offensive,” Singh snapped.
Joelle controlled her temper with an effort. “The issue is not up for debate,” she said. She removed a datachip from her handbag and placed it on the desk. “You gambled, Prime Minister; you gambled that we would roll over and allow you to get away with a glorified snatch-and-grab. Your gamble
was lost. Now, you have the choice between withdrawing your ships and conceding defeat or war.”
“We are not a rogue state,” Singh said, “and it has been a very long time since India was ruled by the British. You do not get to talk to us in such a manner.”
“You’re acting like a rogue state,” Joelle said. It was also a great deal easier to deal with a rogue state. If Iran, or Algeria, or Arabia threatened British interests, as they did from time to time, the KEWs would be dropped from high overhead without any warning. India, on the other hand, was too strong to be bullied easily. “There is no room for compromise, Prime Minister. I strongly advise you to withdraw your ships.”
Singh met her eyes. “I will discuss the matter with my advisors,” he said. “Will you wait for an hour or two?”
“I have orders to wait for no longer than an hour,” Joelle said, recognising the power play. If she’d stayed longer, it would have suggested there was room for compromise. “I will assume that you have chosen to reject our demands if you fail to give us an answer by then.”
She rose and headed for the door. Singh was angry, but she didn't really fear he would try to hold her prisoner. The entire world would turn on India if an ambassador was harmed, no matter the excuse. Outside, the young aide was already waiting, her face an expressionless mask. Joelle smiled to herself and allowed the younger woman to lead her to a side room.
“I can offer refreshments,” the woman said. “Tea? Coffee? Iced Lemon Tea? Juice?”
“Iced Lemon Tea would be fine, thank you,” Joelle said. She'd acquired a taste for the drink in Malaysia. “I won’t be staying long.”
***
“So they rejected the ultimatum,” Bose said.
Prime Minister Mohandas Singh nodded, controlling his fury with an effort. He had known the British were unlikely to accept the Indian demands - no one dispatched a full-sized task force and then backed down - but he hadn't managed to steel himself to accept their Ambassador’s tone. She'd been injured, according to her file, on Vesy. Sending her was an odd choice, unless one chose to take it as a subtle threat.
“They are telling us to get out or get thumped,” he said. He would have been more diplomatic in a meeting of the full cabinet, but he was damned if he was moderating his tone for Bose. The milksop didn't have the stomach for international power politics. “Or thump them, of course.”
“They did send a task force,” Bose pointed out, mildly. “That is not a minor commitment.”
“Of course not,” Mohandas snarled.
He wasn’t blind to the dangers of playing with fire. The British Ambassador - as rude and undiplomatic as she’d been - had had a point. They couldn't risk weakening the human race to the point where an alien threat - known or unknown - could tear its way through the human sphere. But the only alternative was backing down. His position would be fatally undermined - his enemies in the government would see an opportunity to weaken him - but so too would India’s. He’d presented the British with a situation where the only reasonable step was to back down, yet now they’d presented him with the same problem.
If we back down, he thought, we look weak. But if we fight and lose, we prove ourselves to be weak.
It wouldn't matter, he was sure, if the British recognised India as a Great Power, not if India backed down. The rest of the human race wouldn't take it seriously. They certainly wouldn't stand aside to allow India to assert itself. The British offer was nothing more than smoke and mirrors, a tiny concession to allow him to claim the whole exercise had been worthwhile. If it had been offered a month ago, he would have accepted. But now ...
“We have the choice,” Bose said pedantically, “between fighting and backing down. Correct?”
“Correct,” Mohandas said. He’d said as much himself. Surely, Bose would reach a point sometime before the deadline ran out. “Do you have a point?”
“We tried,” Bose said. “The British didn't submit. Now we do the smart thing and back down ourselves.”
“And make ourselves look weak,” Mohandas snapped.
“We would not be weak,” Bose said. “I do understand that military matters are a little out of my sphere” - Mohandas glared; he’d cut Bose out of those decisions for a reason - “but I do understand that building those carriers was a colossal commitment. We spent billions of rupees on the ships. I don’t want to think about just how much money we spent on establishing two out-system colonies and building up our space-based industrial base ...”
Mohandas cut him off. “Do you have a point?”
Bose showed a flicker of irritation. “My point, Prime Minister, is that even a victorious conflict would leave us bankrupt,” he said. “I imagine the British are already preparing to wage financial warfare against us. They may not be able to convince the other Great Powers to get involved directly, but cutting off credit lines or calling in loans would be just as bad.”
“If we win the war,” Mohandas said, “the credit lines would reopen.”
“Assuming we win,” Bose said. “The loss of a single carrier, Prime Minister, would be devastating. We spent over six hundred billion rupees on each of those ships. The British are simply in a better place to recover from the cost of a war than us. I won’t even go into the cost we’ll pay when all the other powers start regarding us with suspicion ...”
“Enough,” Mohandas said. “What will it do to us if we just back down?”
“We will lose nothing,” Bose said. “Our military force would remain intact. Our ability to defend our worlds and positions would be undamaged. Anyone carrying out a sober analysis of the balance of power would draw the same conclusions ...”
“Except we would look weak,” Mohandas said. “The only way to survive is through victory.”
“So we win a very limited victory,” Bose said. “Do you believe we can defeat the British completely, even if the other Great Powers refuse to get involved?”
“We have the power to prevent them from recovering their worlds,” Mohandas hissed.
“But not enough to stop them from rebuilding their forces far faster than ours,” Bose countered. “Ten years from now, assuming no problems on either side, they will have fifteen carriers to our five. Twenty years from now, they will have over forty carriers and we will have ten ...”
“Assuming they keep building,” Mohandas said.
Bose scowled. “Do you think they won’t?”
He tapped the table, once. “These estimates are conservative, Prime Minister,” he added, sharply. “They have a far sounder financial base than us. They are far more capable of sustaining a long arms race. And they have good reason to know they need the ships.”
“Then we need to fight now,” Mohandas said.
“No, we don't,” Bose said. “The gamble failed. Take what they’re offering you and be glad.”
“The cabinet voted for war,” Mohandas snapped.
“A mistake,” Bose countered. “I think you can convince them to back down.”
“But I won't,” Mohandas said. “We have this window of opportunity. I will not let it go.”
“Nor will the British,” Bose said. “We may win now - if everything goes our way - but what about the next war? How long did the British bear a grudge over the Falklands?”
“We cannot back down,” Mohandas said. “And that is what I will tell the Ambassador.”
***
Joelle was privately surprised when the aide returned forty minutes after showing Joelle to the side room and providing her with a large glass of Iced Lemon Tea. Given Singh’s attitude, she had expected either a hasty agreement or a flat refusal to back down - or even see her again. She would have left, of course, taking with her the last hope of peace ...
But, as she stepped into the office, she knew that the entire mission had been a forlorn hope.
“Prime Minister,” she said.
“We have considered the matter,” Singh said. “Britain has committed many crimes against us ...”
Joelle
cut him off. She’d heard too many similar rants from the leaders of rogue states and they never really changed, even though the scripts were different. These were not the days when every world leader could claim to have majored in western hypocrisy or get away with unpleasant behaviour because of political correctness. And hearing it from a major world power was simply annoying.
“This isn't a debate,” she said, flatly. “Are you going to withdraw your ships or not?”
“No,” Singh said.
“I see,” Joelle said. She rose to her feet. “In that case, Prime Minister, we have nothing more to say to one another.”
She strode out of the office, not looking back. It was no surprise that the aide was already waiting for her, ready to take Joelle back to the car. Joelle kept her face under tight control as they left the building, then nodded to the aide as she climbed back into the car.
A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6) Page 20