by David Weber
"That's not precisely what I said, Madam President. I know exactly who handed it over to us. No, I don't know the identity of the person who actually provided it at the source, but I do know where it came from—in general terms, at least."
"But, excuse me, Linda," Thomas Theisman said, turning to face her and the president, with his back towards the panoramic window of Pritchart's Péricard Tower office, "why in the world would somebody in Beowulf suddenly drop this kind of information on us of all people?"
"That's something I'm less prepared to theorize about," Trenis said. "I have some thoughts on the subject, but that's all they are at this point."
"Well, if you have any thoughts on this subject, you're well ahead of me," Pritchart said candidly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs. "So let's hear them, Admiral."
"Of course, Madam President."
Linda Trenis was a highly organized woman. One of her greatest strengths when it came to building tightly reasoned analyses was the way she carefully considered every snippet of information before fitting it in place. It was painfully evident that the thought of presenting what could be no more than her preliminary, off-the-cuff impressions to the Republic's head of state wasn't very high on her list of favorite things to do. But she'd known it would be coming, so she drew a deep breath and began.
"There could be a lot of reasons for someone in Beowulf to want us to know about this. Frankly, it's unlikely any of them would be because they like us so much, though. Mind you, I don't think they've ever disliked us as much as Manticore did, and I think that's been even more true since the restoration of the old Republic, but 'not as much as Manticore' doesn't mean they actually care for us all that much. Once upon a time, we were actually on pretty good terms with them, but that relationship started going down the tubes when the Legisaturalists came in. The Technical Conservation Act was the kiss of death as far as the Beowulfans were concerned, and they cut off military and intelligence cooperations with us a hundred and forty years ago . . . which, obviously, wasn't the case where Manticore's cpncerned. So there's never been much doubt that if they had to choose between the two of us, they'd choose Manticore in a heartbeat. And, to be honest, if I lived right on the other side of the Junction from Manticore, I'd probably make the same choice."
Pritchart and Theisman both nodded, and Trenis shrugged.
"I think, then, that we have to begin from the assumption that they told us about this because they thought it would help Manticore, not because they thought it would hurt them. At first, I couldn't see any reason they might think that. Then, as I considered it, it occurred to me that they might have a better appreciation of how we're thinking here in Nouveau Paris than we'd realized."
"I beg your pardon?" Pritchart blinked, and Theisman frowned.
"What I'm trying to say, Madam President, is that we've had a natural and understandable tendency to concentrate our counterintelligence activities against Manticore. Now, though, I've started wondering just how thoroughly Beowulf might have penetrated the Republic."
"Beowulf, Linda?" Theisman sounded dubious, and Trenis looked at him. "We're an awful long way from Beowulf," the secretary of war pointed out. "Why should they worry about penetrating us? And if they have, why haven't they been feeding any information they've gathered to the Manties?"
"To take your second question first, Sir, we don't know they haven't been feeding information to the Manties, do we?" Despite herself, Trenis smiled slightly at Theisman's expression. "As to why they should worry about penetrating us, we are the people who've happened to be at war with their next door neighbor—and friend—for the last twenty T-years. People don't talk about it a lot, but Beowulf's intelligence agencies are pretty good, and I think it would make sense for them to keep an eye on the people fighting a star system barely six hours away from their own home system."
Theisman's expression segued into a thoughtful frown, and Pritchart nodded.
"At the same time," Trenis continued, "I'm inclined to think they either haven't gotten very much from us, or else that they've chosen for reasons of their own not to share what they have gotten with Manticore. It may be that Manticore's been sharing information with Beowulf, and that, as a result, Beowulf's known Manticore already had almost everything Beowulf could have provided. Let's not underestimate what the Manties are capable of in this area all on their own. On the other hand, I'm inclined to wonder if the Beowulfers might not have stepped up their efforts after that assassination attempt on Alexander-Harrington and what happened to Webster and on Torch."
"Oh?" Pritchart tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowing. Trenis wasn't on the list of people who knew about Albert Giancola or Kevin Usher's suspicions about Yves Grosclaude's highly convenient—or inconvenient, depending upon one's perspective—demise.
"Madam President, we didn't do it. And, frankly, something like this indicates a completely new capability on somebody's part. Given the way Beowulf feels about Mesa, and given the fact that Manpower wouldn't hesitate for a moment to rent out a new assassination tool, and that any analyst has to look very closely at the possibility that we're looking at some new bioscience technique, I think it's likely Beowulf's suspicion focused on Mesa well before anyone else's did. If that's the case, it would be logical for them to assume Manpower had rented it to us, especially in light of the attempt on Duchess Harrington. And if they did think that, one way to find the Mesa connection would have been to come at it from our end."
Pritchart realized she was nodding slowly. It was all purely speculative, of course, but it made a sort of sense. In fact, it might well make a lot of sense, especially—as Trenis had suggested—in light of Beowulf's hatred for and suspicion of all things Mesan.
"Assuming there's anything at all to what I've just said," the admiral continued, "I think it's possible, even probable, that after what happened at Monica, New Tuscany, and now Spindle, Beowulf's concluded that we really might have been innocent bystanders, at least where the assassinations were concerned. From which it follows that whoever was behind the Webster murder and the attack on Queen Berry was trying to sabotage the original summit talks between you and Queen Elizabeth. And from that, it's only a fairly short step to assuming we've genuinely wanted to end the fighting ever since you sent Countess Gold Peak back to Manticore with the summit offer. More than that, if they really have managed to get any sort of penetration here all in Nouveau Paris, I'd say it's t probable that they're aware of how favorably we reacted to Duchess Harrington's arrival and Elizabeth's offer to negotiate after all, as well."
"You're saying someone in Beowulf thinks we're likely to want a solid, reasonable treaty more than we'd want to take advantage of Manticore's possible distraction?" Pritchart said thoughtfully, although there was still a pronounced hint of skepticism in her tone.
"I think it's possible, Madam President."
"It may be possible, Linda, but it sounds sort of high-risk to me, coming from somebody who thinks of himself as Manticore's friend," Theisman remarked.
"It could be," Trenis acknowledged. "On the other hand, what have they really told us? That the Sollies are stupid enough to reach back into the sausage machine and go after Manticore again? Sure, if we're inclined to try to take advantage of the Manties' position after their home system's been hammered, and knowing the League is going for their throat from the front, we can start putting our plans together a little sooner. But that's really all this would do for us, and I don't think anyone in Beowulf would be stupid enough to think we're stupid enough to actually jump Manticore unless the Star Empire's already been pretty much pounded flat. So, in that sense, telling us about the Sollies' plans doesn't translate into any sort of meaningful military advantage."
"You're thinking somebody in Beowulf, probably someone fairly high up in the decision-making tree, is thinking in terms of the diplomatic implications of this news," Pritchart said slowly.
"I'm thinking that's a possibility, Madam President. Don't forget, though, that all
of this came at me just as cold as it's coming at you. I may be completely out to lunch here. But whatever else is going on, never forget how long Beowulf and Manticore have been friends. And who handed this to me. To be honest, we'd always thought Beowulf's chief of station for their intelligence services here on Haven was their commercial attache. Now, though, assuming the whole thing isn't some huge deception measure after all, they've effectively confirmed that it's actually been their naval attache all this time . . . and she came out into the open on their ambassador's specific instructions. Bearing in mind the relationship between them and the Manties, I just don't see why Beowulf's ambassador would authorize someone to hand us anything they expected to hurt the Star Empire."
"I'm inclined to agree," Theisman said. "But the law of unintended consequences hasn't been repealed, as far as I'm aware."
"And, there's another side to this," Pritchard said. Theisman looked at her, and she shrugged. "McGwire, Younger, and Tullingham," she said flatly, and the secretary of war grimaced.
Trenis looked puzzled. Pritchart saw the expression and, after a moment, decided to explain.
"You're right about the Administration's desire to conclude an equitable treaty with Manticore, Admiral Trenis. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees on exactly what the term 'equitable' implies. And, frankly, there are some fairly influential players outside the Administration who are going to regard this fresh threat to the Star Empire—especially after what happened to their home system—as grounds for us to harden our position. They're going to see all too clearly that the Manties' back is to the wall, and they're not going to see any reason at all why we shouldn't use that to force concessions out of Manticore, instead of the other way around."
"Which," Theisman said dryly, "might not be the most productive possible way to approach Elizabeth Winton at a moment like this."
Trenis winced slightly, and Pritchart chuckled.
"Frankly, I can't say I'm totally averse to the prospect of achieving better terms myself," the president admitted. "I'd particularly like to knock that notion of reparations on the head, even though I can't really say the Manties are unjustified in looking for them. What I'm concerned about, though, is that this fresh development is going to embolden the congressional critics of our decision to negotiate with Manticore in the first place. There wasn't a lot they could do to spoke our wheel while Eighth Fleet was right here in the Haven System as a pointed reminder of how little choice we had. Now they're going to decide the Solarian threat has just given us a club to hold over the Manties' head, and that's going to produce all kinds of . . . unfortunate repercussions."
Despite her chuckle of a moment before, there was absolutely no amusement on Eloise Pritchart's face as she shook her head.
"This Administration is still too badly wounded by what happened in the Battle of Manticore for me to ignore what the opposition is likely to do with this information in Congress. Put another way, at this moment I don't have the moral authority and public support numbers I had before Operation Beatrice, so I can't bully Congress into doing what I want without building a consensus first, and this is going to make it a lot easier for the opposition to keep me from doing that. And that means that whatever Beowulf may be thinking, and however badly I want to return to the negotiating table and get this war ended, this little revelation is a lot more likely to derail, or at least seriously impede, the negotiating process than it is to speed it up."
April, 1922 Post Diaspora
"Whatever else anyone might say about Manticorans, they don't 'run scared' worth a damn."
—Admiral Thomas Theisman,
Republic of Haven Navy
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Fleet Admiral Massimo Filareta was tall, black-haired, and broad- shouldered, with a closely cropped beard and piercing dark eyes. In a service renowned for nepotism and family interest, he took second place to none in terms of his lofty connections. He was also well known for a tendency to party hard when the opportunity came his way, and among those who knew him particularly well there were rumors that he enjoyed certain pleasures even the most jaded Solly might call "esoteric." He was scarcely alone in that among the SLN's senior officers' ranks, however, and he'd also established a reputation for hard work, levelheadedness, and attention to detail that matched both his imposing physical presence and his expensive tastes.
At the moment, though, his levelheadedness appeared to be somewhat in abeyance, Admiral John Burrows, his chief of staff noted with undeniable unhappiness.
Burrows was the physical antithesis of his superior. Where Filareta stood a shade over a hundred and ninety centimeters, Burrows barely topped a hundred and sixty-two, and he was fair-haired, blue-eyed, and distinctly portly. Like Filareta, Burrows enjoyed a reputation for working hard, but he was actually more comfortable than his superior was when it came to improvising. And he'd also developed a certain talent for reading Filareta's mood and adroitly . . . managing him.
"And what do you think about this brainstorm, John?" Filareta demanded rather abruptly, wheeling from his contemplation of his enormous day cabin's smart wall, which currently displayed the central star of the Tasmania System.
"I assume you're referring to Admiral Rajampet's latest missive, Massimo?"
Burrows put an edge of drollness into his tone, but Filareta wasn't in the mood for their usual shared, more or less tolerant contempt for the CNO.
"And just what else did you think I might be referring to?" he asked rather nastily.
"Nothing," Burrows admitted, dropping the effort to defuse the other man's obvious unhappiness. His more sober expression was an unstated apology for his original attempt at humor, and Filareta grunted.
"Well, whatever," he said, waving one hand. "What do you think of it?"
"I haven't had time to fully examine the availability numbers," Burrows replied rather more formally. "Assuming that everyone who's supposed to get here actually does before we hyper out, it looks like we'll probably hit the specified force level. We might even have a few of the wall to spare. So, from the nuts-and-bolts perspective, it looks doable. I don't like how light we're going to be in screening elements, and I wish we had a lot better information than we do at this point on what happened at Spindle, though."
"The screen numbers could worry me less," Filareta said dismissively, waving his hand again. "That point about Spindle, though—that one's well taken. Of course, Sandra Crandall always was too stupid to close the outer hatch first, but still . . . ."
His unhappiness was even more pronounced, and Burrows discovered that he shared it.
"I think there's probably something to the theory that the Manties aren't going to want to go on pushing things, especially assuming ONI's estimate of the damage they took in this attack on their home system is remotely accurate," he offered after a moment. "If the Strategy Board's right about that, turning up with four hundred-plus of the wall ought to inspire them to see reason."
"And if the 'Strategy Board' is wrong about that," Filareta's withering irony made it perfectly clear who he thought had really come up with the notion, "then turning up with four hundred-plus of the wall is going to get a lot of people killed."
"Yes, it is," Burrows agreed. "On the other hand, I have to say I think the estimates about the damage the Manties' system defenses must've suffered are probably pretty well taken." Filareta looked at him sharply, and the chief of staff shrugged. "I'm not saying they've been hammered as completely flat as the ops plan seems to be suggesting, but nobody could get in close enough to inflict that kind of damage inside the limit without fighting his way through a shit pot of their inner system defenses, at least. And if the loss reports for the Battle of Manticore are remotely accurate, they couldn't have had more than a hundred or so wallers of their own left even before this latest attack."
"Which I might find rather more reassuring if they hadn't pinned Crandall's ears back with nothing heavier than cruisers," Filareta observed rather caustically.
"I know
I just said myself that I wish we had more information about what happened at Spindle," Burrows said. "But from the way I read what data we do have, I think what she really ran into was a bunch of missile pods deployed in the system-defense role."
"And your point is?"
"My point is that they were probably system-defense pods—I mean a specialized design specifically optimized for that role. Sure, all they showed us was cruisers, but as you just pointed out, Admiral Crandall never was the sharpest stylus in the box, and Manty stealth systems seem to be better than anyone thought they were. It's entirely possible they managed to get an entire dispersed defensive array emplaced without her spotting it. And the minimum powered envelope estimates I've seen are a hell of a lot higher than the range at which they took out Jean Bart. So I'm inclined to think that what they'd really managed to do was to deploy a specialized area-defense version of their pods, probably with substantially larger missiles to get that extra range. Think of them as . . . oh, old-fashioned mines with three or four normal drives shoved up their asses. It's the only way I can think of that they could've gotten the range, but missiles that big simply wouldn't be practical for shipboard weapons." Burrows shrugged. "Where the hell would you put the magazines?"
Filareta started a quick reply, then paused at Burrows' last question. He thought for a moment or two, then nodded.
"I hadn't really thought about that," he admitted. "If they've gone to missile-dominated combat, then they have to have struck some kind of balance between missile ranges and missile size, don't they? They've got to have enough rounds onboard to do the job."
"Exactly." Burrows grimaced. "I'm willing to concede that even their shipboard weapons will have a substantial range advantage, but it's not going to be as great as the advantage they had over Crandall. And the second point about their being a specialized system-defense variant is that the only 'proof' they polished her off with 'nothing heavier than cruisers' comes from the Manties. If I were they, and what I'd really used was a sophisticated, integrated system-defense weapon—one that probably did have an FTL component—I'd do my best to convince the League I'd done it with a scratch force of light ships, too . . . if I thought I could get away with it. But everything I've seen from our own intelligence and R&D people says that any kind of broadband FTL is going to require humongous platforms. The smallest estimate I've seen suggests that nothing much smaller than a waller could carry the system and a worthwhile weapons load. So since they obviously were using FTL against Crandall, they sure as hell weren't doing it from something as small as a heavy cruiser. To be honest, that—coupled with the size requirements for the missiles themselves—is why I'm convinced it had to be a system-defense set up. Crandall crapped out because they managed to get the dispersed platforms in-system and up and running before she got there."