by Дэвид Вебер
"The point is," he continued, "that it's going to come to shooting in the end, no matter what sort of 'negotiations' anyone may try to set up. And when it does, the strategy's actually going to be pretty damned simple, since they've only got one really important star system. They don't have any choice, strategically. If we go after Manticore itself, they have to stand and fight. No matter how long-ranged their missiles may be, they can't just cut and run, so I want to be sure we've got enough counter-missiles and point defense to stand up to their missile fire while we drive straight for their planets. It may not be pretty, but it'll work."
"Yes, Sir," Kingsford said yet again, and he knew his superior was right. After all, that concept lay at the bottom of virtually all of Battle Fleet's strategic doctrine. But however much he might agree with the CNO about that, his brain was still working on that aborted "Besides" of Rajampet's. Something about it bothered him, but what . . . ?
Then he remembered.
I wonder . . . Did he even mention Sandra Crandall and her task force to the others? And while I'm wondering, just how much did he have to do with getting her deployed to the Madras Sector in the first place?
It took all of his self-control to keep his eyes from narrowing in sudden, intense speculation, but this was definitely not the time to ask either of those questions. And even if he'd asked, the answers—assuming Rajampet answered him honestly—would only have raised additional questions. Besides, however far into this particular pie Rajampet's finger might be, the CNO was covered. Byng's assignment, while not precisely routine, wasn't completely unprecedented. It was certainly justifiable in the wake of the Battle Monica and all the charges and counter charges that had spawned, as well. And, equally certainly, Crandall had the seniority to choose, within reason, where to carry out her training exercises. So if it just happened she'd picked the McIntosh System for Exercise Winter Forage (or whatever she'd decided to call it in the end), and if that just happened to mean Task Force 496 was barely fifty light-years away from the Meyers System, that didn't necessarily indicate any collusion on Rajampet's part.
Sure it didn't , he thought. And I'll bet that answers my first question, too. Hell no he didn't tell them. And he's covered no matter what happens, because she's undoubtedly made up her own mind by now what she's going to do, and he can't possibly get orders to her in time to stop her. So, really, there was no point in telling them, was there?
Winston Kingsford hadn't commanded a fleet in space in decades, but he had plenty of experience in the tortuous, byzantine maneuvers of the Solarian League's bureaucracy. And he was well aware of how much Rajampet resented his own exclusion from the cozy little civilian fivesome which actually ran the League. Minister of Defense Taketomo's real power was no greater than that of any of the other cabinet ministers who theoretically governed the League, but Defense was—or damned well ought to be, anyway—at least as important as Commerce or Education and Information. It had a big enough budget to be, at any rate, and it was critical enough to the League's prosperous stability. Yet Rajampet had been denied his place at the head table, and it irritated the hell out of him.
But if we should just happen to get into a real, genuine war for the first time in three or four hundred years, all of that could change, couldn't it? Kingsford thought. I wonder how many people Rajani would be willing to kill to bring thatabout?
Despite his own trepidation, Kingsford felt a certain grudging admiration. It was always possible he was wrong, of course. In fact, he wouldn't have thought Rajampet had that sort of maneuver in him. But it wasn't as if Winston Kingsford felt any inclination to complain. After all, if Rajampet pulled it off, it was Kingsford who would eventually inherit that increased prestige and real political clout. And if everything went south on them, it wouldn't be Kingsford's fault. All he would have done was exactly what his lawful superior had instructed him to do.
It never even crossed his mind that in most star nations what he suspected Rajampet of would have constituted treason, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. For that matter, under the letter of the Solarian League Constitution, it did constitute treason—or, at the very least, "high crimes and misdemeanors" which carried the same penalty. But the Constitution had been a dead letter virtually from the day the original ink dried, and what someone else in some other star nation, far, far away, would have called "treason" was simply the way things were done here in the Solarian League. And, after all, somebody had to get them done, one way or another.
"Well, Sir," he said, speaking for the recorders he knew were taking down every word, "I can't say I'm looking forward to the thought of having any more of our people killed, but I'm afraid you're probably right about your civilian colleagues' hopes. I hope not, of course, but whatever happens there, you're definitely right about our in-house priorities. If this thing does blow up the way it has the potential to, we'd better be ready to respond hard and quickly."
"Exactly." Rajampet nodded firmly.
"In that case, I'd better be getting the technical data over to ONI. I know you want to tell Karl-Heinz about Karlotte yourself, Sir, but I'm afraid we're going to need to move pretty quickly on this if we're going to have those models and analyses by tomorrow morning."
"Hint taken," Rajampet said with a tight smile. "Head on over to his office. I'll screen him while you're on the way over. Probably be a good idea to give him something else to think about as quickly as possible, anyway."
* * *
Elizabeth III sat in her favorite, old-fashioned armchair in King Michael's Tower. A three-meter Christmas tree—a Gryphon needle-leaf, this year—stood in the center of the room in the full splendor of its ornaments, mounting guard over the family gifts piled beneath its boughs. Its resinous scent filled the air with a comforting perfume, almost a subliminal opiate which perfected the quiet peacefulness which always seemed to surround King Michael's, and there was a reason it was here rather than somewhere else in Mount Royal Palace. The stumpy, ancient stonework of the tower, set among its sunny gardens and fountains, was a solid, comforting reminder of permanence in Elizabeth's frequently chaotic world, and she often wondered if that was the reason it had become her and her family's private retreat. She might well conduct official business there, since a monarch who was also a ruling head of state was never really "off duty," but even for business purposes, King Michael's Tower was open only to her family and her personal friends.
And to some people, she thought, looking at the tall, almond-eyed admiral sitting sideways in the window seat across from her, with her long legs drawn up and her back braced against one wall of the window's deep embrasure, who had become both.
"So," the queen said, "what did your friend Stacey have to say over lunch yesterday?"
"My friend?" Admiral Lady Dame Honor Alexander-Harrington arched one eyebrow.
"I think it's a fair choice of noun." Elizabeth's smile was more than a little tart. "Mind you, I don't think anyone would have given very high odds odds on that particular friendship's ever happening, given the way you and her father first met."
"Klaus Hauptman isn't actually the worst person in the world." Honor shrugged. "Admittedly, he made an ass out of himself in Basilisk, and I wouldn't say we got off on the right foot in Silesia, either. And, to be honest, I don't think I'm ever going to really like him. But he does have his own sense of honor and obligations, and that's something I can respect, at least."
The cream-and-gray treecat stretched out on the window sill raised his head and looked at her with quizzically tilted ears. Then he sat up, and his true-hands began to flicker.
"'Crystal Mind'?" Elizabeth repeated out loud. "Is that what the 'cats call Stacey?"
"Yes," Honor replied, but she was looking at the treecat. "I don't think that's entirely fair, Stinker," she told him.
<'Fair' is a two-leg idea,> he signed bac
k.
"Which is one of the reasons I, personally, prefer treecats to most of the two-legs I know," Elizabeth agreed. "And, for that matter, Nimitz's estimate of Hauptman the Elder's personality is closer to mine than yours is."
"I didn't put him up for sainthood, you know," Honor observed mildly. "I only said he isn't the worst person in the world, and he isn't. Arrogant, opinionated, frequently thoughtless, and entirely too accustomed to getting his own way, yes. I'll grant you all of that. But the old pirate's also one of the most honest people I know—which is pretty amazing, when you get down to it, given how rich he is—and once he figures out he has an obligation in the first place, he's downright relentless about meeting it."
"That much," Elizabeth conceded, "is true. And"—the queen's eyes narrowed shrewdly, and she cocked her head—"the fact that he's so strongly committed to stamping out the genetic slave trade probably helps just a tad where you're concerned, too, doesn't it?"
"I'll admit that." Honor nodded. "And, frankly, from what Stacey had to say, he's not taking the possibility of Manpower's involvement in what's going on in Talbott what someone might call calmly."
"No, I suppose not."
Elizabeth leaned back in her armchair, and the treecat stretched along its top purred buzzingly as the back of her head pressed against his silken pelt. He reached down, caressing her cheek with one long-fingered true-hand, and she reached up to stroke his spine in return.
"He's not exactly alone in that reaction, is he, though?" she continued.
"No."
Honor sighed and scooped Nimitz up. She gave him a hug, then deposited him in her lap, rolled him up on his back, and began to scratch the soft fur of his belly. He let his head fall back, eyes more than half-slitted, and her lips quirked as he purred in delight.
In point of fact, Elizabeth's last question was its own form of thundering understatement, and she wondered what the response on Old Terra was like. By now, their newsies had to have picked up the reports coming out of Manticore, and it wouldn't be very long before the first Solarian reporters started flooding through Manticore, trying to get to Spindle and New Tuscany to cover the story.
"I'm sure you have at least as good a feel for how people are reacting to all this as Stacey does," she pointed out after a moment.
"Yes, and no," Elizabeth replied. Honor looked a question at her, and the queen shrugged. "I've got all the opinion polls, all the tracking data, all the mail pouring into Mount Royal, analyses of what's being posted on the public boards—all of that. But she's the one who's been building up her little media empire over the last T-year and a half. Let's face it, the newsies are actually better than my so-called professional analysts at figuring out where public opinion is headed. And I'm sure she's also hearing things from her father's friends and business acquaintances, as well. For that matter, you move in some fairly rarefied financial circles yourself, Duchess Harrington!"
"Not so much since I went back on active duty," Honor disagreed. "Willard and Richard are looking after all of that for me until further notice."
Elizabeth snorted, and it was Honor's turn to shrug. What she'd said was accurate enough, but Elizabeth had a point, as well. It was true that Willard Neufsteiler and Richard Maxwell were basically running her own sprawling, multi-system financial empire at the moment, but she made it a point to stay as abreast of their reports as she did those from Austen Clinkscales, her regent in Harrington Steading, and those reports frequently included their insights into the thinking of the Manticoran business community. And, for that matter, of the Grayson business community.
"At any rate," she went on, "Stacey hasn't had her 'media empire' all that long. She's still working on getting everything neatly organized, and I think there are aspects of the business which offend her natural sense of order. But, I have to admit, the fact that she's so new to it also means it's all still fresh and interesting to her."
"So she did bring it up at lunch!" Elizabeth said a bit triumphantly, and Honor chuckled. But then her chuckle faded.
"Yes, she did. And I'm pretty sure she said basically what your analysts are already telling you. People are worried, Beth. In fact, a lot of them are scared to death. I don't say they're scared as badly as some of them were immediately after the Battle of Manticore, but that still leaves a lot of room for terror, and this is the Solarian League we're talking about."
"I know." Elizabeth's eyes had darkened. "I know, and I wish there'd been some way to avoid dumping it on all of them. But—"
She broke off with an odd little shake of her head, and Honor nodded again.
"I understand that, but you were right. We had to go public with it—and not just because of our responsibility to tell people the truth. Something like this was bound to break sooner or later, and if people decided we'd been trying to hide it from them when it did . . . ."
She let her voice trail off, and Elizabeth grimaced in agreement.
"Did Stacey have a feel for how her subscribers reacted to the fact that we already sat on the news about what happened to Commodore Chatterjee for almost an entire T-month?" the queen asked after a moment.
"Some of them are upset about the delay, but she says e-mails and com calls alike are both running something like eight-to-one in support of it, and the opinion poll numbers show about the same percentages." Honor shrugged again. "Manticorans have learned a bit about when and how information has to be . . . handled carefully, let's say, in the interest of operational security. You've got a pretty hefty positive balance with most of your subjects on that issue, actually. And I think just about everyone understands that, especially in this case, we have to be wary about inflaming public opinion. And not just here in the Star Kingdom, either."
"That's my read, too," Elizabeth agreed. "But I'm still not entirely happy about mentioning the possible Manpower connection." She sighed, her expression worried. "It's bad enough telling people we're effectively at war with the Solarian League without telling them we think a bunch of nasty genetic slavers may be behind it all. Talk about sounding paranoid!"
Honor smiled wryly. Yet again, Elizabeth had a point. The notion that any outlaw corporation, however big, powerful, and corrupt it might be, was actually in a position to manipulate the military and foreign policy of something the size of the Solarian League was preposterous on the face of it. Honor herself had been part of the discussion about whether or not to go public with that particular aspect of Michelle Henke's summary of her New Tuscan investigation's conclusions. It really did sound paranoid—or possibly just like the ravings of a lunatic, which wasn't all that much better—but she agreed with Pat Givens and the other analysts over at ONI. Lunatic or not, the evidence was there.
"I agree some people think it's a little far fetched," she said after a moment. "At the same time, a lot of other people seem to be looking very hard at the possibility Mike's onto something. And, to be perfectly frank, I'm just as happy to have that aspect of it out in the public 'faxes because of the possible out it gives those idiots on Old Terra. If Manpower really was behind it, maybe it will occur to them that cleaning their own house—and letting their public know they're doing it—is one response that might let both of us step back from the brink. If they can legitimately lay the blame on Manpower, then maybe they can admit they were manipulated into a false position. They've got to know that if they'll only do that, we'll meet them halfway at the negotiating table. And after what already happened to them in Monica, and with Technodyne, surely the groundwork for that kind of response is already in place!"
"Sure it is. And you can add in the fact that they're going to be pissed as hell at Manpower when they realize we're right. So they've got all sorts of reasons to climb on board and do exactly what you're suggesting. But they're not going to."
Elizabeth's expression was no longer worried; now it was grim, and Honor frowned a question at her.
"If they'd been going to be reasonable, they never would've taken better
than three weeks just to respond to our first note. Especially when their entire response amounted to telling us they'd 'look into our allegations' and get back to us. Frankly, I'm astounded they managed to leave out the word 'ridiculous' in front of 'allegations'." The queen shook her head. "That's not a very promising start . . . and it is very typically Solly. They're never going to admit their man was in the wrong, no matter how he got there, if there's any way they can possibly avoid it. And do you really think they're going to want to admit that a multi-stellar that isn't even based in a League star system—and is involved up to its eyebrows in a trade the League's officially outlawed—is able to manipulate entire squadrons of their battlecruisers and ships-of-the-wall?" She shook her head again, more emphatically. "I'm afraid a lot of them would rather go out and pin back the uppity neobarbs' ears, no matter how many people get killed along the way, than open any windows into corners of the League's power structure that are that filled with dirty little secrets."
"I hope you're wrong about that," Honor said quietly, and Elizabeth's lips twitched.
"I notice you only 'hope' I am," she said.
"I'd prefer a stronger verb myself," Honor acknowledged. "But . . . ."
"'But', indeed," Elizabeth murmured. Then she pushed herself more briskly upright in her chair. "Unfortunately, I don't think either of us can afford to treat ourselves to any of those stronger verbs of yours. Which, along with thinking about the possibility of past errors, brings me to what I really wanted to ask you about."
"Four days," Honor said, and Elizabeth chuckled.
"That obvious, was I?"
"I have been thinking about it a bit myself, you know," Honor replied. "The ops plan's been finalized, even if everyone hopes we won't have to use it; Alice Truman's running the fleet through the rehearsal exercises; and I'm just about finished up with my briefings from Sir Anthony. So, about four days."
"You're sure you don't want a couple of more days with the fleet yourself?"