We Few

by David Weber

  "Gianetto," he sang again. "Gianetto's going to... put Fourteenth in somewhere near Mercury orbit. He'll figure they can react from there in any direction. A 'central reserve' to watch the inner system while he deploys the rest of his forces where they can close in behind any attacker. Very much in keeping with ground force tactics—ground-pounders don't think in terms of light-speed lag the way spacers do. He's overlooking the fact that his outer maneuver units won't know to start maneuvering until he tells them to. And if the intel's right, he's using Twelfth to sandwich Old Earth from the outside, same distance towards the periphery as Fourteenth to sunward. Which says things we may not like about Prokourov's loyalties."

  The admiral went back to his humming, eyes unfocused, then shrugged.

  "On the other hand, it probably also means Gianetto doesn't trust Prokourov quite as much as he does Brettle or La Paz, with the Thirteenth. Sure, he's got him in close to cover Old Earth, but by the same token, he's got Fourteenth close enough to cover him. So he's got his 'central reserve' either side of the planet and uses Gajelis to keep an eye on Prokourouv at the same time. Then he scatters the rest of Home Fleet out to watch the approaches.

  "Greenberg may've squawked about that—he damned well should have!—but probably not. He knows about me, but he doesn't know about the Prince. So he also 'knows' that I know I don't have a hope in hell of accomplishing anything while Adoula controls the Palace and the Empress. I'm not going to hit Imperial City with KEWs—not when the Empress is the only person who could possibly rally resistance to him—and I don't have enough Marines to take the Palace against its fixed defenses before the entire Home Fleet closes in on me, signal-lag or no. So he's probably content to let Gianetto put Gajelis and Prokorouv wherever makes Gianetto—and Adoula—happy, while he covers the outer arc of the system with Eleventh and Thirteenth, which he can be confident will fight for Adoula if he needs them."

  "What about Fifteenth and Sixteenth, Sir?" Julian asked.

  "Out on the periphery with Eleventh and Thirteenth," Helmut said positively. "I'm not certain about Admiral Mahmut, with the Fifteenth. He's going to be an Adoula loyalist, but his carrier skippers may have other ideas. Hard to say. Admiral Wu, on the other hand, is not going to be one of Adoula's strong supporters."

  Julian looked at him, and the admiral shrugged.

  "Look, Sergeant, a lot of the officers who aren't actively opposing Adoula right now are sitting it out because they simply don't see a viable alternative. The Prince is dead, as far as they know, and even if they knew differently, his reputation isn't one to engender confidence in him. So they may hate Adoula's guts and still see him as the only alternative to chaos the Empire simply cannot afford. I've taken pains for years—with, I might add, the Empress' explicit private approval—to build a cadre of ship commanders and senior officers here in Sixth Fleet which is prepared to blow hell out of Adoula and his lackeys anyway. Which is why Sixth Fleet 'just happened' to be stationed way the hell out on the frontier when the ball went up back at Sol. And also the reason Adoula's cronies at Defense HQ finagled ways for years to whittle Sixth down to the smallest carrier strength of the numbered fleets.

  "But the point is, Wu's as apolitical as a flag officer can be these days. She's loyal to the Empire, but she's also cold-blooded enough to put the good of the Empire ahead of the good of the Empress. But she's also too good, and too popular with her officers and spacers—most of whom are going to follow her lead if the shit hits the fan—to fire without a really good reason. So Gianetto—and Greenberg—are making what they consider to be the best use of her. They figure they can count on her to resist outside attacks on the system, but maybe not to stay out of it if there's some sort of trouble planet-side. So they stick her out with Eleventh and Thirteenth, but covering a less critical section of the Tsukayama Limit."

  "That... seems like a good idea," Julian said bemusedly.

  "The target is Old Earth, Sergeant," Helmut snapped. "Yes, our fleet can come in from anywhere on the TD sphere. But if we come in from the other side of the system, or off-ecliptic, we've got a long drive across the system. That gives Gianetto all the time in the world to maneuver inside of us. If the squadrons are near Old Earth. But if they're still distributed the way they were when our last data packet was dropped, everything except Fourteenth and Twelfth is far too widely dispersed, trying to cover too much of the system's volume. Not concentrated. They're going to have to be assembled from all over the system from a cold start to defend the planet when we turn up. Figure four hours actual transit time to Old Earth orbit for Fourteenth and Twelfth, but over twelve for the farthest out. We'll be to Old Earth in less than ten, and they won't even know to begin moving to intercept us till they get light-speed confirmation of our arrival. So we'll have had a lot of time to start building velocity for Old Earth before they do. That's precisely the weakness the Prince—or whoever thought this up—picked up on. They'll have to begin reshuffling their dispositions when we turn up, because they're so badly out of position to begin with.

  "What Gianetto should be doing is worrying about covering the planet, and the hell with the outer system. And he should be putting only forces he knows he can trust in close. But Gianetto will go the other way, and Greenberg will let him. Instead of parking Fourteenth directly in Old Earth orbit, where it would already be in position, he's got it stationed way the hell in-system. And instead of allowing only forces he knows he can trust in-system, he's got Fourteenth double-tasked to keep an eye on Twelfth. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, where you can keep an eye on them—that's what he's thinking... when he should be concentrating on the fact that he's got the rest of his units so scattered that they'll find it harder than hell to concentrate before we get to Old Earth ourselves."

  "What about Moonbase?" Julian asked.

  "A point," Helmut conceded. "And to be fair—which I don't much want to be—probably the real reason Greenberg didn't bitch when Gianetto started spreading Home Fleet all over the backside of hell. Moonbase has the firepower of at least two carrier squadrons' ship-to-ship weapons all by itself, so in a way, he does have a task group—without cruisers, of course—in position to cover the planet at all times. But if Kjerulf can take over when Greenberg goes down, that gives him control of the Moonbase launchers and emplacements. Assuming he has the current release codes for them, at any rate. Best-case is for him to come in on our side and have the codes, but we can live with it if he only manages to deny Adoula's people access to them."

  "That's fixed weapons, Sir. What about the Moonbase fighters?"

  "They could be a problem. But there are two companies of Fleet Marines on Moonbase, and I've been careful to ensure that all the worst rumors I've gotten about the Empress' condition were dumped on the sites where Marines grouse to each other. I don't even have to guess what the response has been, do you?"

  "No, Sir," Julian admitted.

  "I've kept the Moonbase fighter wing in my thoughts," Helmut told him with a thin smile. "I'm sure the Marines have, as well. And Kjerulf, I know, has access to the same intelligence."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Well, then," Helmut folded both hands behind him and frowned as he resumed his pacing. "The point is, Sergeant, that while Home Fleet will almost certainly move to concentrate between us and Old Earth, as predicted, when we arrive, the fleet's options are going to change rather abruptly when the planet goes up in flames behind them. What will they do then?"

  "Turn around to go after the planet after all?"

  "No," the admiral said firmly. "That's precisely why the Prince—or whoever—specified that we arrive so early. Gajelis is stationed a tad over four hours from Old Earth on a zero/zero intercept profile. That means that if he wants to stop and drop into orbit around the planet, he'll have to go to decel roughly two hours after he begins accelerating towards the planet. But he'll have been accelerating for three and a half hours—it'll take about thirty-five minutes for Perimeter Security to pick up our TD footprint a
nd get the word to him—before anything happens on Old Earth. He won't be able to decelerate and insert himself into orbit. In fact, by the time he overran the planet, decelerated to relative zero, and then built a vector back towards it, we'd be running right up his ass."

  "So they're screwed, Sir. Right?"

  "Assuming—as I do—that Home Fleet's loyalty to Adoula is going to come unraveled in a hurry when Greenberg buys it and the fleet's officers realize someone's mounting an attempt to rescue the Empress, then, yes, Sergeant. Screwed is exactly what they'll be. But if they react quickly enough, they'll still be able to cut their losses and run for it. They'll be inside us, Sergeant. They can break for any point on the TD sphere, and the range will still be long enough for them to avoid us without much difficulty. Which means we could face a situation in which quite a lot of Adoula loyalists will get away from us. And if he gets away, as well—a distinct possibility, I submit; he's the sort of man who always has a rathole handy to dash down—we're going to be looking at a civil war whatever your Prince wants. In which case, I further submit, it would be nice if he didn't have any more ships on his side than we can help. Yes?"

  "Yes, Sir," Julian said fervently.

  "I'm so happy you agree, Sergeant," Helmut said in a dust-dry voice, then wheeled to give him another ferret-sharp smile. "Which is why we're leaving a little early, Sergeant Julian. I have a small detour I need to make."

  "Who are these guys?"

  "I dunno, Mr. Siminov," the gang leader said, standing as close to attention as he could manage.

  Alexi Siminov referred to himself as a "businessman," and he had a large number of fully legitimate businesses. Admittedly, he owned only one of them—a restaurant—on paper; the rest he owned through intermediaries as a silent, and senior, partner. But the legitimate businesses of his small empire were quite secondary to its illegitimate businesses. He ran most of the organized crime in the south Imperial City district: racketeering, "protection," illegal gambling, data theft, illegal identities, drugs—they all paid Siminov a percentage, or they didn't operate at all.

  "I thought they was just a restaurant," the gang leader continued, "but then I had to wonder. They smelled fishy. Then I guessed they was probably your people, and I made real nice to them. Besides, they've got heavy muscle. Heavier than I wanted to take on."

  "If they were one of my operations, I'd have let you know," Siminov said, angrily. "They're laundering money. It's not my money, and I'm not getting my share of the action. That makes me upset."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Siminov." The gang leader swallowed. "I didn't know."

  "No, you didn't," Siminov conceded. "I take it you shook them down?"

  "We had to come to an agreement," the gang leader said with a slight but audible gulp. "They were pretty... unhappy about an... arrangement."

  "And if they were one of my operations, do you think they would have come to an agreement?" Siminov's eyes flickered dangerously.

  "Uh..."

  "I suppose that logic was a bit too much for you." Siminov's lips thinned. "After all, you don't hold your position for your brains."

  "No, sir," the gang leader said with a wince.

  "Youdid come to an agreement though, right?" Siminov said quietly. "I'd hate to think you're losing your touch."

  "Yes, sir. And you got your cut, sir."

  "I'm sure. But not a cut of the action. Very well, you can go. I'll handle the rest."

  "Thank you, sir." The gang leader backed out of the office, bowing jerkily. "Thank you."

  Siminov rubbed his chin in thought after the gang leader's departure. The fool had a point; this group had some serious muscle. Mardukans were few off-planet, and of that few, quite a number of them worked as "muscle" in one organization or another, but always in tiny numbers. He didn't have any, and he'd never seen more than one of them at a time, yet this guy, whoever he was, had at least fifty. Maybe more. And they all had that indefinable air of people who could be unpleasantly testy.

  Which meant the direct approach to enforcing his rules was out. But all that meant was that he'd need to use subtlety, and that was okay with him. Subtle was his middle name.

  * * *

  "Captain Kjerulf," Eleanora O'Casey said as she shook his hand. "Thank you for meeting with me."

  They were in a fast-food establishment in the low-grav portion of Moonbase. She noticed that he showed no trace of awkwardness moving in the reduced gravity.

  Kjerulf really did look a lot like Gronningen, she thought. Same size, just a shade over two meters, same massive build, same close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and square jaw. But he was older and, she could tell by his eyes, wiser. Probably what Gronningen would have been like if he'd had the time to grow up.

  "There are people who handle supplemental supplies, Ms. Nejad," the captain observed, shaking his head as he sat down across the table from her. "I'm afraid I can't really help you in that."

  His casually apologetic, meeting-you-to-be-polite tone was perfect, but he knew the meeting wasn't about "supplementary supplies." Not with that "roses are red and sauerkraut's yellow" message header.

  "I realize that this isn't, strictly speaking, your area of responsibility, Captain," Eleanora said. "But you are a very influential individual in Home Fleet, and the Mardukan comestibles we can supply would be a welcome change for your spacers and Marines."

  "I don't handle procurement, Ms. Nejad," Kjerulf said in a slightly cooler tone, and frowned.

  "Perhaps. But I'm sure you have some influence," she said. "Left. For now."

  He'd opened his mouth to reply before she finished speaking. Now he closed it, and his eyes narrowed. With Adoula replacing everyone who hadn't been bought and paid for, she had a point. But not one that a comestibles supplier would make. It might be one that... someone else would make, but whether that was good or bad would depend upon who she represented. On the other hand, Marinau had ended up as a sergeant major in the Empress' Own, he knew that. So—

  "Perhaps," he said. "A few of the captains might accept a suggestion or two. But that would depend entirely upon the quality of the... supplies."

  Eleanora considered the captain's background carefully, and hoped like hell that he'd had the same general upbringing as Gronningen.

  "Some of our atul," she said, quietly, "are as moist as a fatted calf, Captain."

  Kjerulf sat there for a moment, his face unchanging. Perhaps too unchanging.

  "Impossible," he said finally.

  "No, really," Eleanora replied. "They may be predators, but they're just as tasty—tasty enough even an Armaghan satanist would swear by them. I think you'd like one. They're vicious and deadly to their natural enemies, yes, but they provide a very fine... main course."

  Kjerulf reached forward and picked a handful of fries off of her plate. He stuffed them into his mouth and masticated slowly and thoughtfully.

  "I've never had... atul," he said. "And I've heard it's not very good, to be honest. And rare. To the point of extinction."

  He dusted his fingers against each other to get the salt off, and looked at them distastefully. Finally, he wiped the grease off with a napkin.

  "Your information is out of date," Eleanora replied. "They're very much alive, trust me."

  "And you have them in-system, where they could be delivered promptly?" Kjerulf asked, still wiping his hands.

  "Yes," Eleanora said. "And other fleets have added them to their supply list and found the taste quite acceptable. Much better than they'd expected from some other people's reports."

  She picked up a fry of her own and squirted ketchup from a bulb down its length. As she bit delicately into the fry, her other hand squirted out the word "O'Casey" on her plate. Then she picked up another fry and wiped out the ketchup with it.

  "I take it you're a senior member of this business venture?" Kjerulf said.

  "I'm in charge of marketing and sales." Eleanora finished eating the fry which had erased her name. "And policy advising."

 
; "And other fleets have found these supplies satisfactory?"

  "Absolutely," Eleanora replied. "I want you to understand, Captain, that those people you can convince to try this new taste sensation will be in on the ground floor. We're planning on being a big name in the business here in the Sol System. Very soon."

  "I'm sure you are," Kjerulf said dryly. "There are, however, many competitors in any business. And..." He shrugged and frowned.

  "We realize that," Eleanora replied. "And, of course, there's the question of monopoly markets," she added, having thought long and hard about how not to use the words "Empress" and "Palace" in the conversation. "It's never easy to get started when someone else controls access to the critical markets. But we intend to break those monopolies, Captain, and free those markets. It's central to our business plan. Depending upon the quality of the businesses we find participating in the present monopolies, we might be interested in a buyout. That would depend upon the quality of those businesses' management, of course. We've heard they may have some internal problems."

  "And your competitors?" Kjerulf said, puzzling over that rather complicated metaphor string.

  "Our competitors are going to find out just how deadly to their future marketing prospects our ability to supply genuine atul really is."

  "How are your projections?" Kjerulf asked after another pause.

  "I'll admit that sales to Home Fleet are a big part of our expansion plans. But they're not essential. Especially since other fleets are already in our supply chain. But I'd hate to have any bickering between the various fleets' supply officers, and sales to Home Fleet would be very helpful. With them, our projections are excellent. Without them, they're... fair."

  "I couldn't guarantee sales to the whole fleet," Kjerulf said. "I could make suggestions to some of the captains, but my boss—" He shrugged.