“My pleasure,” Sarah lied. She waved him to a seat as a steward entered, carrying a pot of coffee and two mugs. The steward was as ill-trained as the rest of the crew. He hadn’t thought to bring a tray or a box of cookies or anything . . . Sarah put such trivialities aside. She didn’t really want to offer Soto anything. “What can I do for you?”
“Your crew doesn’t seem to want to talk to my people,” Soto said. His voice seemed disarming, as if he were inviting her to share intimate confidences. His smile was charming, and yet it didn’t quite touch his eyes. “It’s really quite awkward.”
“My crew is currently scrambling to meet a deadline,” Sarah said bluntly. She was damned if she was wasting politeness on a commissioner. She’d heard enough grumbling about them over the last few days to know she couldn’t let him take her for granted. “They don’t have time to talk to you about anything.”
“But I have my orders,” Soto said. He sounded shocked at her remark, as if he’d expected her to order her crew to put his demands first. “I have to carry them out.”
“So do I,” Sarah said. She reached for a random datapad and held it up. “I have hundreds of things I have to do, personally, before departure. We’re leaving in three days. Really . . .” She sipped her coffee meaningfully. “I’m wasting time just talking to you now.”
Soto’s eyes went wide. “Then why are you talking to me?”
“Because I also have orders to cooperate with you as much as possible,” Sarah said. Admiral Falcone had given her officers plenty of leeway, but Sarah had a nasty suspicion that Admiral Falcone wasn’t calling the shots. Not after Tyre. “But I cannot deal with you wasting my time. I simply don’t have it to waste.”
She picked up another datapad. “Ammunition shortages. Crew shortages. Half my departments are significantly undermanned, to the point where we’ll have real trouble coping with any unexpected engagements. A lack of shore leave for the vast majority of my crew . . .”
“There is a war on,” Soto said mildly.
Sarah felt her temper flare. “With all due respect, sir, a military force cannot remain at full alert indefinitely. The longer a crew goes without a chance to decompress, to relax and enjoy themselves, the greater the danger of mistakes. And some of those mistakes can be lethal. We are putting immense demands on a relatively small number of people, and they are suffering for it. We’ve got to realize that before one of those people makes a mistake and someone gets killed.”
Soto spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. “And I am responsible for tracking morale throughout the ship,” he continued. “A number of crewmen”—he produced a datapad of his own—“have been complaining about . . .”
Sarah took the pad, glanced at it, and shook her head. “They’re some of my best people.”
“They’re damaging morale,” Soto said. “You cannot allow a high-performer to go unpunished because he’s a high-performer.”
“Really?” Sarah snorted. “People complain all the time. They complain about everything, from navy-issue slop to navy-issue rags to fanatical bastards in starships hurling missiles at them! There’s a difference between complaining loudly and being ready to mutiny.”
“But their complaints harm morale,” Soto insisted.
Sarah looked him in the eye. “When I was a young officer, there were complaints about navy-issue underwear. Do you think that harmed morale?”
She went on, not giving him a chance to answer. “Either the complaints are just mindless complaints, which are generally ignored as nothing more than whining, or they come from something real. If the former, they are ignored; if the latter, silencing the people complaining isn’t going to fix the problem. It’s better to know what people are bitching about rather than letting their discontent fester in silence.
“Now, if you have a problem with that, you can take it to Admiral Falcone,” she said. “I’m sure she’ll be very pleased to hear from you. If not, stay out of the way. This ship is going to depart in the next three days. If we’re not ready to go, we’ll all be for the high jump.”
Soto reddened. “Aye, Captain.”
“And don’t do anything stupid,” Sarah said as Soto rose to go. “I’ll make damn sure you regret it.”
She watched him leave, then finished her coffee. The communications datanet was already full of complaints and rumors about the commissioners—no one called them security officers—ranging from suggestions they were in enemy pay to claims they’d been putting surveillance monitors in bathrooms and sleeping racks. Sarah hoped that wasn’t true. She knew there was scant expectation of privacy in the military, but there were limits. If that were true . . .
I’d have to kick him off the ship before he accidentally walked out an airlock, she thought. And that would open a whole new can of worms.
She wished, just for a moment, that she could go back to Caledonia and discuss the matter with Governor Rogan. Had he signed off on the commissioners? Or had he found himself presented with a fait accompli? Or . . . or what? He couldn’t be blind to the problems they would cause, could he? She made a face as she considered the implications. Steps taken to prevent a future mutiny might accidentally wind up causing one.
At least Admiral Falcone understands the problems, she thought. But who’s really calling the shots?
“The last intelligence report states that Home Fleet is engaged in heavy exercising, but otherwise hasn’t left Tyre,” Kitty reported. “They’ve actually redeployed another squadron from the border stars to Home Fleet.”
“They must be concerned about a sneak attack,” Kat mused. “And less worried about the border than we hoped.”
She frowned as she studied the chart, weighing up the travel times between the border and Tyre itself. The border colonies weren’t exactly friendly to Tyre, but they were grimly aware that their choice was between the Commonwealth and Marseilles. They’d done everything in their power to avoid taking a side, speaking sweetly to both the king and the House of Lords without actually committing themselves to anything. Kat didn’t blame them, but she knew their studied neutrality was likely to come with a price. Marseilles might want those worlds in exchange for their support.
And that’s going to cause problems when it finally dawns on the inhabitants, Kat thought. The debate about seeking help from Marseilles had raged on for hours, with people torn between taking what they could get and fearing the price for outside support. Governor Rogan had been flatly against trading planets and systems away, as if the will of the locals meant nothing. If they don’t support us, why should we support them?
She put the thought to one side as she ran through the calculations again. Her tactical staff had turned the vague concept into a workable plan, running hundreds of sims in hopes of predicting the possible outcomes. The good guys had won more than they’d lost, in simulation. Kat was all too aware that sims tended to leave out everything from newer and better enemy weapons to simple random chance. William wouldn’t let her lead him by the nose. And, if he was ordered to take her bait, he’d try to find some way to subvert it.
“Admiral?” Kitty caught her attention. “Ah . . .”
Kat flushed. “I was light-years away,” she said. “What were you saying?”
Kitty looked down. “I was wondering if they were planning an offensive of their own.”
“I’m sure of it,” Kat said. “They can’t let the war go on forever, even if time is on their side.”
She frowned. William would understand the risks of assaulting a heavily defended star system, but sooner or later he’d have to do it anyway. Given time, the House of Lords could build up the firepower to crush Caledonia’s defenses and . . . and then what? If they captured the king, they could end one problem, but what about the Colonial Alliance? They could end the war yet lose the peace. Or . . . She shook her head. If that happened, it wouldn’t be her problem. She might die in the final engagement of the war.
“We have time,” she said, although she wasn’t sure that was true. Wi
lliam was careful, not given to rash moves, but his superiors would be breathing down his neck for action. He’d probably be planning more raids into colonial territory, targeting industrial nodes even if he didn’t land troops. “And we have to keep them off-balance.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Kitty said.
Kat glanced at the engagement ring on her hand, feeling a pang of grief and guilt, then shook her head. “Are there any concerns about meeting the deadline?”
“Nothing serious, Admiral,” Kitty said. “There has been a string of complaints about supplies, as usual, and the commissioners . . . ah, security officers. The latter have been quite annoying. One of them got punched out, and the entire crew closed ranks.”
Kat groaned. “I knew they’d be trouble,” she said. “I wish . . .”
She bit the comment off sharply. Kitty was her aide, but she couldn’t badmouth the king in front of her. She understood his reasoning, yet she thought the appointment of the so-called security officers was fatally flawed. It would provoke discontent, if discontent was already there. The colonials would bitterly resent their presence. The Tyrians would feel the same way.
“Tell them to behave themselves,” she said finally. There was little else she could do, not unless she wanted to damage morale herself. “And remind commanding officers that they have the power to brig any commissioner”—she used the word with a flicker of amusement—“who causes problems. I’ll take the heat.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Kitty sounded concerned. “Is that wise?”
“Perhaps not,” Kat said without heat. “But it has to be done.”
She changed the subject. “Did the out-system sweep turn up anything?”
“No, Admiral.” Kitty looked puzzled. “I . . . I thought they didn’t have a hope of finding anything.”
“I would have been astonished if they had,” Kat said. She didn’t mind the question. They were alone. She could take the time to explain her reasoning without weakening her authority. “The sweep serves two purposes. First, it does make it harder for the enemy to sneak a ship into the system and therefore forces them to keep their distance. And second, the sweep helps our crews build up cohesion. They’re going to need it when they come under fire.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Kitty said.
And they’ll be coming under fire very soon, Kat thought stiffly. We’ll be departing in three days.
She picked up a datapad and checked the reports. The fleet would be ready on schedule, as ready as it would ever be. The shortages were starting to bite, and bite hard. The king was probably going to have to come to terms with Marseilles soon, if he hadn’t already. She rather suspected he was a lot closer to making the formal agreement than he’d claimed during the council meeting. He’d likely frozen out most of his own government from the discussions.
Which isn’t a good thing, she reminded herself. She was surprised the king hadn’t assigned someone to handle the discussions in his place. It’s easy to disown an ambassador. It’s a lot harder to disown a king.
She put the thought aside as she turned back to the simulations. The king was right about one thing. If they won, they could renegotiate. Marseilles wouldn’t be able to do anything about a “creative” interpretation of the agreement. And if they lost, it wouldn’t matter.
Of course not, her thoughts mocked her. If we lose, we’ll be dead.
CHAPTER TEN
CALEDONIA
It was a curious fact, Captain Gianni Yolinda had discovered over the last few weeks, that whoever had opened Caledonia’s immense asteroid belts and gas giant orbits to exploitation hadn’t bothered to impose any rules or regulations. There were thousands upon thousands of mining facilities, from simple one-person operations to huge corporate facilities fully the equal of anything to be found near Tyre. The whole scene was something out of a movie about the early days of space exploration, not something from the modern universe. She was puzzled and galled in equal measure to find that Caledonia was so lax. It was oddly offensive to her.
And yet, she had to admit, the setup worked in her favor.
Her ship looked, from the outside, like one of the thousands of tramp freighters pottering their merry way through the asteroid belt. She appeared to be nothing more than a free trader, someone who sold simple goods to asteroid miners who rarely have more than a handful of credits to rub together. And yet, if the locals ever inspected her ship, they would be more than a little upset. Her passive sensor array was so sharp she could monitor activity on the other side of the system as long as she accounted for the time delay; her communications system was capable of inserting a message into the StarCom network without giving anyone a chance to freeze the signal, let alone trace it back to her. They’d have to shut the StarCom down completely if they wanted to keep her from sending messages, something that would alert Tyre that Caledonia was up to something. Gianni snorted at the thought. That wouldn’t be their only problem. StarComs were flimsy things. If they shut the device down, they might not be able to start it up again.
She relaxed in her chair, watching more and more data piling up in front of her. The locals didn’t really monitor the asteroid belt, not even now there was a war on. She had plenty of contingency plans for making her escape, if they demanded she prepare to be boarded, but it was starting to look as if she’d never need such plans. Surely they should have noticed that she’d never made port anywhere. But then, a tramp trader wouldn’t make port at any of the bigger installations either. The local authorities would be more likely to serve Gianni conscription papers and demand she present herself and her ship for military service.
Which would be awkward all round, she mused as she studied the display. Better to make my escape if they demand my presence.
The data kept flowing into her display, her tactical computers crunching the numbers and turning it into something she could use. The king’s fleet had been working its way through a fairly simple exercise, grinding out the kinks before he had to take his fleet into battle. Gianni wasn’t too impressed by their efforts, but she had to admit they were working hard to overcome their weaknesses. She’d seen worse, back during the last war. The Theocracy had rarely bothered with exercises, scripted or unscripted. God would provide, they’d reasoned. But God hadn’t obliged . . .
She leaned forward as she saw a pair of superdreadnought squadrons altering course, making their way out of the system. A thrill ran through her. An attack fleet, about to set course for one of a hundred possible targets? Or a decoy, intended to flush her—or someone like her—out of cover? She was all too aware that they had to know they were being watched. The system was practically designed to allow outsiders to spy on them. And yet, if they were watching . . . Her gaze slipped to the near-space display. There was nothing there, as far as she could tell. That was meaningless. A cloaked ship could be sneaking up on her, and as long as her crew were careful, she might pass completely unnoticed until she was well within firing range. Gianni felt another thrill. She’d always liked the thought of sneaking around, embracing the risk of being caught, which was why she’d accepted the role when it had been offered to her. The thrill more than outweighed the risks.
An alarm flared as the superdreadnoughts opened vortexes, waves of FTL energy rippling through space before fading back into the vacuum. Gianni leaned forward, breathing a sigh of relief mingled with irritation as the superdreadnoughts continued onwards. They’d opened vortexes, briefly, but they hadn’t slipped into hyperspace. They were already reversing course, heading back to Caledonia. Gianni let out a cross breath as a third superdreadnought squadron, millions of kilometers farther away, vanished into hyperspace. A single squadron had left the system . . .
Unless it’s trying to get into position before dropping out of hyperspace, she reminded herself. Her sensors were sharp enough to detect a vortex two light-years distant, according to the techs. The longer the squadron remained undetected, the farther away it was . . . and the more likely it was on a mission rather than carrying out
pointless exercises. They might have something clever in mind.
She waited, silently counting the seconds. Each minute felt like an hour. The superdreadnought squadron didn’t reappear. She ran through the sensor records, trying to identify which ships had left. The king’s forces seemed to switch IFF signals on a daily basis, presumably to confuse watching eyes like hers, but the trick had its limits. She knew their ships too well to be fooled for long. HMS Violence, Kat Falcone’s command ship, had led the third squadron as it vanished. And that meant . . . they were up to something.
Good, Gianni thought. It’s been too quiet recently.
She composed a message, then encoded it. The king’s inspectors would be alarmed if the code was unbreakable, so she was careful to use a civilian encryption program that wouldn’t stand up to a military-grade decryption system. They’d be reassured when they saw the message, perhaps taking a day or two to review, unaware it meant something totally different. And they’d send it on without hesitation. Her lips quirked as she reread the message, just to be sure it was perfect.
And now we wait and see, Gianni told herself as she sent the message. Who knows? Maybe they’ll figure out the target and have a reception committee waiting . . .
“Admiral,” Kitty said. “We’ve reached the RV point.”
Kat looked up from her console. She’d watched, carefully, as two superdreadnought squadrons slid into hyperspace, leaving behind a cluster of drones and modified freighters, but there was no way to know if their deception had been successful. Someone was certainly watching. She’d stake her entire trust fund on it, if she still had one. And if they were close enough to spot the deception, the entire plan would be worse than useless. They might realize that half the king’s superdreadnoughts would be on their way to an unknown destination, completely out of contact until they reached their target. Who knew what sort of mischief someone could do if they realized the truth?
Debt of War (The Embers of War) Page 10