by David Weber
“I understand, Sir.”
“Be sure you do, Victor.” Gianetto’s voice was bleaker than ever as he gazed into the pickup of the com unit aboard the inconspicuous vessel carrying him away from the planet. “The only way to keep everything from falling apart is to take out the Palace and all of these bastards from orbit. Which is going to mean taking out an almighty big chunk of Imperial City, as well. It’s on record that ‘Roger’ already blew up Prince Jackson’s home and downtown office in an effort to kill him. If the Palace goes, as far as anyone will know once we get done spinning the story, it’ll be because our valiant defenders managed to hold him off long enough for the Navy to arrive. At which point he either suicided to avoid capture, or—even better—hit the Palace with a KEW of his own and managed to escape in the confusion. You understand what I’m telling you, Victor? And that it has the Prince’s approval?”
“Yes, Sir. I’ve already heard from Prince Jackson, and he entirely concurs.”
Roger had gotten one of the Mardukans to find a broken pike, and he was leaning on that when New Madrid was brought in. Roger had to admit that he truly did look a good bit like his father. They’d never actually met before. Pity that the meeting was going to be so short, he thought coldly.
“Give me a sword,” he said to the nearest Vasin as two Diaspran infantrymen threw his father at his feet.
The Earl of New Madrid was trembling, his terrified face streaked with sweat, and he stared mutely up at Roger as the Mardukan handed him the blade. The cavalry sabre would have been a two-handed sword for almost any human, but Roger held it in one hand, rock steady as he slid the tip of the blade under his father’s chin.
“I’m curious, Father,” he said. “I wonder why my mother would scream at the sight of me? Why she should expect to see men she can’t even remember in her bedroom? Why she’s covered in bruises and burns? Why she thinks someone who looks just like me killed my brother John in front of her? Do you think you might know the answers to those questions, Father?”
“Please, Roger,” New Madrid whimpered, shaking uncontrollably. “Please! I—I’m your father!”
“‘Bad seed’ they called me,” Roger half-whispered. “Behind my back, usually. Often enough to my face. I wondered what could make them hate me so? What could make my own mother hate me so? Now I know, don’t I, Father? Well, Father, when a doctor finds a cancer, he cuts it out.” Roger dropped the pike and raised the sword overhead in two hands, balancing on his good foot. “And I’m going to cut you out!”
“NO!” Nimashet Despreaux screamed from the doorway.
“I have the right!” Roger spat, not looking at her, trying not to see her, the sword held over his head and catching the light. “Do you know what he’s done?!”
“Yes, Roger. I do,” Despreaux said quietly. She stepped into the room and walked over to stand between Roger and his father. “And I know you. You can’t do this. If you push me aside—if you could do it—I’ll walk. You said it. Carefully, quietly. No muss. No fuss. We try him, and sentence him, and then slip the poison into his arm. But you will not cut off his head in a presence room. No one will ever trust you again if you do. I won’t trust you.”
“Nimashet, for the love of God,” Roger whispered, trembling, his eyes pleading with her. “Please, stand aside.”
“No,” she said, in a voice of soft steel that was as loving as it was inflexible.
“Roger,” Eleanora said from the doorway, “the Prime Minister is going to be here in about . . . oh, ninety seconds.” She frowned. “I really think it would be better, in both the short and the long run, if you didn’t greet him covered in your father’s blood.”
“Besides,” Catrone said, standing beside her in the door, “if anybody gets him, I do. And you told me I couldn’t do him.”
“I said you couldn’t torture him,” Roger replied, sword still upraised.
“You also said we’d do it by the Book,” Catrone said. “Are you going back on your word?”
Silence hovered in the presence room, a silence broken only by the terrified whimpers of the man kneeling at Roger’s feet. And then, finally, Roger spoke again.
“No,” he said. “No, Tomcat. I’m not.”
He lowered the sword, letting it fall to a rest-arms position, and looked at the cavalryman who’d handed it to him
“Vasin?”
“Your Highness?”
“May I keep this?” Roger asked, looking at the sword. “It’s a blade from your homeland, a blade you carried beside your dead Prince—beside my friend—for more kilometers than any of your people had ever traveled before. I know what that means. But . . . may I keep it?”
The Mardukan waved both true-hands in a graceful gesture of acceptance and permission.
“It was the blade of my fathers,” he said, “handed down over many generations. It came to Therdan at the raising of the city’s first wall, and it was there when my Prince hewed a road to life for our women and children as the city died behind us. It is old, Your Highness, steeped in the honor of my people. But I think your request would have pleased my Prince, and I would be honored to place it and its lineage in the hand of such a war leader.”
“Thank you,” Roger said quietly, still gazing at the blade. “I will hang it somewhere where I can see it every day. It will be a reminder that, sometimes, a sword is best not used.”
The Prime Minister stepped into the room and paused at the tableau which greeted him. The soldiers, watching a man holding a sword. New Madrid on his knees, sobbing, held in place by two of the Mardukans.
“I am looking for the Prince,” the Prime Minister said, looking at the woman who claimed to be Eleanora O’Casey. “For the supposed Prince, that is.”
Roger’s head turned. The movement was eerily reminiscent of a falcon’s smoothly abrupt motion, and the modded brown eyes which locked on the Prime Minister were as lethal as any feathered predator’s had ever been.
“I am Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang Mac-Clintock,” he said flatly. “And you, I suppose, would be my mother’s Prime Minister?”
“Can you positively identify yourself?” the Prime Minister said dismissively, looking at the man in the soiled cat-suit, holding a sword and balancing on one foot like some sort of neobarbarian. It looked like something out of one of those tacky, lowbrow so-called “historical” novels. Or like a comedy routine.
“It’s not something a person would lie about,” Roger growled. “Not here, not now.” He hopped around to face the Prime Minister, managing somehow to keep the sword balanced as he did. “I’m Roger, Heir Primus. Face that fact. Whether my mother recovers from her ordeal or not—the ordeal she went through while you sat on your fat, spotty, safe, no-risk-taking ass and did nothing—I will be Emperor. If not soon, then someday. Is that clear?”
“I suppose,” the Prime Minister said tightly, his lips thinning.
“And if I recall my civics lessons,” Roger continued, glaring at the older man, “the Prime Minister must command not simply a majority in Parliament, but also the Emperor’s acceptance. He serves, does he not, at the Emperor’s pleasure?”
“Yes,” the Prime Minister said, lip curled ever so slightly. “But the precedent for removal by an Emperor hasn’t been part of our constitutional tradition in ov—”
Roger tossed the sword into the air. He caught it by the pommel, and his arm snapped forward. The sword flew from his hand and hissed past the Prime Minister’s head, no more than four centimeters from his left ear lobe, and slammed into the presence chamber’s wall like a hammer. It stood there, vibrating, and the Prime Minister’s jaw dropped as Roger glared at him.
“I don’t much care about precedent,” Roger told him, “and I’m not very pleased with you!”
“God damn it!” Victor Gajelis snarled under his breath as the new icons appeared suddenly in his plot. He knew exactly what they were, not that the knowledge made him feel any better about it.
“CIC confirms, Sir,” Comman
der Talbert told him. “That looks like every single one of CarRon 12’s cruisers. Prokourov must’ve punched them twenty-five minutes ago, because they’re already up to almost eleven thousand KPS.”
Gajelis’ mouth tightened as he considered the tactical situation. Frankly, in his considered opinion, it sucked.
By sending his cruisers in at reduced acceleration, Prokourov had managed to get their velocity up to almost two thousand kilometers per second more than CarRon 14’s. They were still seven million kilometers—almost eight—further from Old Earth orbit, but their greater velocity meant they would actually arrive well before Carrier Squadron Fourteen. Of course, they were only cruisers, but there were ninety-six of them.
No fancy cruiser tricks were going to get Prokorouv’s carriers to the planet before Gajelis’ own carriers, not with CarRon 14’s twenty-minute head start. But CarRon 12’s missiles would have the range to cover anything in orbit around the planet for over an hour before they actually reached the planet’s orbital shell. Accuracy wouldn’t be very good at such extended ranges, but to carry out his own mission orders, Gajelis had to get within no more than three or four hundred thousand kilometers of the planet. He couldn’t guarantee the accuracy Gianetto and Adoula had specified from any greater range, even assuming that he could get missiles through the defensive fire of the ships already in planetary orbit. Besides, it was going to be difficult to make it look as if Prince Roger’s adherents had done the deed if Moonbase had detailed sensor readings showing shipkillers from CarRon 14 hitting atmosphere. No, he had to get close enough to do it with KEW, and that meant advancing into Prokorouv’s carriers’ missile envelope.
Unless . . .
He thought furiously. Almost two hours had passed since the attack on the Palace began. His communications sections were monitoring the confused babble of news reports and speculation boiling through the planetary datanet, and it was obvious that opinion was hardening behind the belief that it was, indeed, Prince Roger. At the moment, however, most of the commentary seemed to incline towards the belief that it was simply a case of the nefarious Traitor Prince returning for a second attempt. The notion that it was an attempt to rescue the Empress was still being greeted with skepticism, but that was going to change as soon as the first independent report of the Empress’ condition got out. That was going to take time, but there was no way to know how much of it.
“Punch the cruisers,” he said flatly. “Maximum acceleration.”
Talbert glanced at him, then passed along the order.
“What about the fighters, Sir?” he asked after a moment.
“Send them in, too,” Gajelis said. “Configure them for CSP to cover the cruisers.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Gajelis didn’t miss the brief hesitation before the commander’s acknowledgment, but he ignored it. He didn’t like committing his cruisers this early, but his own ships and Prokorouv’s carriers were still eight light-minutes apart, which meant it would take eight minutes for Prokourov to learn that Cruiser Flotilla One-Forty had launched. Eight minutes in which Gajelis’ cruisers would be free to accelerate at their maximum velocity. Even assuming Prokourov went to maximum acceleration on his own cruisers the instant they detected CruFlot 140—which he undoubtedly would—Gajelis’ cruisers would have built enough acceleration, coupled with the distance CarRon 14 had traveled before launching them, to arrive four minutes before CruFlot 120. And CarRon 14 would be twenty minutes closer to the planet when that happened.
Gajelis’ cruisers would be outside the effective range of his carriers’ antimissile defenses, but they would be inside the basket for his carriers’ shipkillers. The same thing would be true for Prokorouv’s carriers, but Prokorouv’s targeting solutions would be nowhere near as good. It wasn’t an ideal solution, by any means, but, then, there wasn’t an ideal solution to this particular tactical problem. And if he could get his own cruisers into energy range of the four so-called “Fatted Calf Squadron” carriers covering the planet, he could hammer them, especially with his own six carriers’ attack missiles piling in on top of the cruisers’ fire.
He was going to lose most of his own cruisers in the process, of course, especially with Prokorouv’s cruisers coming in on them so rapidly. He had no doubt that that was what had prompted Talbert’s hesitation. But it was also what cruisers were for. He didn’t like it, but he’d come up through cruisers himself. He’d understood how the process worked then, and so would his cruiser skippers now.
Who also all knew they were dead men if Adoula went down.
“They’ve punched their cruisers,” Kjerulf said from the com display.
“Yeah, we sort of noticed,” Captain Atilius responded dryly. If the older officer had shown any hesitation about committing himself in the first place, there was no sign of it now. He was like an old warhorse, Kjerulf thought, faintly amused even now, despite all that was happening. Corvu Atilius probably should have made admiral decades ago, but he’d always been too tactical-minded, too focused on maneuvers and tactical doctrine to play the political game properly. “Roughhewn” was a term which had been used to describe his personality entirely too often over the course of his career, but he was definitely the right man in the right place as Fatted Calf Squadron’s senior officer. He actually seemed to be looking forward to what was coming.
“I always knew Gajelis had shit for brains,” Atilius continued. He shook his head. “He’s going to get reamed.”
“Maybe,” Chantal Soheile said from her quadrant of the conferenced display. “But so are we. And it’s not like he’s got a lot of alternatives.” She shook her head in turn. “He’s got the edge in carriers and missile power. Basically, the only real option he’s got is to pile in on top of us and tried to bulldoze us out of the way before Prokourov can get here.”
“Sure,” Atilius agreed. “But I guarantee you he’ll be sending in his fighters configured for combat space patrol. It’s the way his head works. He just doesn’t see them as shipkillers—not the way he does cruisers. Besides,” he bared his teeth, “his guys are going to have to deal with Gloria, aren’t they?”
“CruFlot 140’s punched, Sir,” a sensor technician reported. “Max accel.”
“Have they, indeed?” Senior Captain Benjamin Weintraub, CO, Cruiser Flotilla One-Twenty, replied. His ships were eighteen light-seconds ahead of their carriers, and he saw no reason to waste an additional half-minute waiting for Admiral Prokorouv’s instructions. “Take us to maximum acceleration,” he said.
Captain Senior-Grade Gloria Demesne, CO HMS Bellingham, narrowed her hazel eyes and considered the tactical plot as she leaned back in her command chair and sipped her coffee. It was hot, strong and black, with just a pinch of salt. Black gang coffee, just the way she liked it. Which couldn’t be said for the tactical situation.
CruFlot 150—well, actually, it was component parts of four separate squadrons, but CruRon 153 was the senior squadron, Gloria was 153’s CO, “CruFlot Fatted Calf” sounded pretty fucking stupid, and they by-God had to call it something—faced half again its own numbers. Not good. Not good at all, but what the hell? At least help was on its way, and if they couldn’t take a joke, they shouldn’t have joined.
Imperial cruisers carried powerful beam weapons, but for the opening phase of any battle, they relied on the contents of their missile magazines, filled with hypervelocity, fission-fusion contact and standoff X-ray missiles. They fought in data-linked networks, in which each ship was capable of local or external control of the engagement “basket.” But for all their speed and firepower, their ChromSten armor was lighter than most military starships boasted and they lacked the multiply redundant systems tunnel drive ships could carry. The far larger FTL vessels were much more sluggish in maneuver, but they were undeniably powerful units, especially in defense. Although cruisers’ acceleration meant they could chase the big bruisers down, doing so was always a risky proposition. And, despite the percentage of their internal volume given over to missile sto
wage, cruisers had much less magazine space than their larger motherships. Nor could they match a carrier’s missile defenses, and that might be important. Because Carrier Squadron Fourteen was in the process of making a critical mistake.
Whether through simple stupidity—she’d never had thought much of Admiral Gajelis’ brains—or because they were in a hurry, the hundred and forty-four ships of Cruiser Flotilla 140 were charging straight on in at 6.2 KPS2.
Obviously, Gajelis wanted to get them into range for precision KEW strikes on the Palace, which meant brushing the four Fatted Calf carriers—and their cruisers—out of his way. But his more sluggish carriers were dropping further and further behind the speeding cruisers—they’d been almost eight and a half million kilometers behind when the cruisers made turnover. By the time CruFlot 140 entered effective missile range of Old Earth orbit, they’d be over twenty-seven and a half million kilometers back.
Of course, missile engagement envelopes were flexible. Both cruiser-sized and capital ship shipkillers could pull three thousand gravities of acceleration. The difference was that capital missiles, fired from the launchers which only ships the size of carriers mounted, could pull that acceleration for fifteen minutes, whereas cruiser missiles were good for only ten. That gave the larger missiles an effective range from rest of over twelve million kilometers before burnout, whereas a cruiser missile had an effective range before burnout of around 2,700,000 kilometers. Platform speeds at launch radically affected those ranges, however, and so did the fact that missile drives could be switched off and then on again, allowing lengthy ballistic “coasting” flight profiles to provide what were for all intents and purposes unlimited range . . . against nonevading targets. Against targets which could evade, and which also mounted the most sophisticated electronic warfare systems available, effective ranges were far shorter. Then there was little matter of active antimissile defenses.