Now the room got down to the ancient military art of making do with way too little. There were skippers pleading for space on a slip for their ship. The yard superintendent already had their list of failed equipment that needed replacing. He also had the list from dirtside of what gear could be produced by the fabs quickest and which would need more time.
To no one’s surprise, the two did not fit together. It wasn’t even close. Over the next hour, compromises were struck, and those facing a long wait for spare parts began to haggle among themselves to see how they might rob from Peter to get Paul away from the dock.
Vicky saw two skippers actually playing rock, paper, scissors. The loser took it like a man. He was quickly set upon by others who were sure that now that he was missing a major component of his power plant, there wasn’t any reason that he shouldn’t give up more gear.
The Vanity ended up stripped down nearly to its hull plates.
Next, skippers began bidding for his crew like some ancient slave auction. Every ship in the fleet was undercrewed. The skipper was a good sport, especially after Admiral von Mittleburg took him and another captain aside who had just been diagnosed with a rare, untreatable cancer.
That ailing skipper was in tears, but he surrendered his command. “You take good care of Caprice. She’s a damn good ship with a good fighting crew.”
“Trust me, Konrad, I will.”
“You do, or I’ll hunt you down in hell and make it worse for you.”
Vicky stepped outside to put a call through to Mannie. “Have you gotten the word?” was all she said.
“That your fleet did one of those day-trips to the moon and a lot of stuff broke?”
“So you got that word.”
“There’s another word?”
“The Empress had two of her merchant cruisers try to force the jump, first with a few longboats loaded with sensors, then with the two cruisers.”
“How’d that go?” Mannie asked.
“She lost two cruisers, we lost one.”
“I guess that’s a good trade.”
“Maybe it was,” Vicky said, remembering the black pall of the officers. How many of them had seen men die in their rise to command ships? It had been a long peace.
Do these men really have the stomach for war?
Then Vicky remembered the skipper reduced to tears when ordered to turn his command over so that another man might sail it into the teeth of death.
Her ships had fought battles. How many had the Empress’s fought?
Vicky shook herself and focused on what she had to. “The Empress is coming for us. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but she’s coming soon. Whatever St. Petersburg can manage to give us, we need it. We need it badly, and we need it fast.”
“I hear you. I’ll get on it immediately. I may not get back to you today, but I will when I can come up for air.”
“You have time to breathe. You must be slacking off,” she said, but softened it with a bit of a chuckle.
“Anyone ever tell you about that Peterwald sense of humor you have?”
“Most people tell me that we Peterwalds don’t have a sense of humor.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” and now he chuckled.
“Maybe you can help me find one when all this is over.”
“I’d love to try to find a lot of things you have hidden away.”
Now he was talking like a lover. Had anyone ever talked to her like that?
“I’d love to let you find a whole lot of things I keep hidden, but for now, we both know what we have to do.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Mannie said.
Was there a hint of a soft kiss as the line went dead?
Vicky decided there was.
Then she returned to Admiral von Mittleburg’s meeting.
CHAPTER 54
FOR the next two days, Vicky found herself with nothing to do while everyone around her was frantic. Growing up in the palace, there had been a lot of times when she had nothing to do. But then, those around her also seemed to have little to do.
Maybe her smaller self hadn’t understood what her dad really did with his hands on the wheels of power. Then again, maybe Dad had only thought he was making things happen. Vicky remembered the time when she’d been allowed to sit on Dad’s lap and put her hands on the steering wheel of the small electric get-about that he used to drive around the gardens. She’d been so excited to actually “drive” the cart.
She was left brokenhearted and screaming when Hank pointed out that Dad had had his hands on the top of the wheel the entire time she had her hands on the bottom.
Was she just sitting on someone’s lap as they really controlled where they were going?
She thought about that and came to the conclusion that if her dad were here, he’d be throwing his weight around everywhere—and likely making a mess of everything.
Vicky remembered a book she downloaded from the library of Kris Longknife’s ship. It had introduced Vicky to the idea of a “constitutional monarchy.”
Was she becoming some sort of castrated constitutional monarch? “Castrated” was the word Father used when he talked about Ray Longknife. “He’s not a king. He can do nothing. He was a great man, once. Now he’s let them cut his balls off.”
Vicky gave that a long thought.
I’m the one who chose to come to St. Petersburg. I’m the one who raised the flag of rebellion. I’m the one sitting here like a stalking goat for the Empress while our ships cut her flanks to ribbons. I chose my course.
However, she’d chosen it carefully—with advice and input from some very smart men.
Am I smarter than my dad?
That was a hard thought to tackle, but it did bring up something worse.
Dad! Where are you?
Could the Emperor have come out with the Empress?
Heaven knows that luxurious tub is big enough to hold the entire palace.
What if the fleet came through the jump waving the Imperial flag and announcing the presence of His Imperial Majesty—lay down your arms or face his full displeasure?
Could Vicky order her fleet to fire on her father, the Emperor?
That was a question that required parsing. Could she give such an order? How would her captains and crews react to it?
Vicky was none too sure about the first half of the question. About the second half, she was even less sure.
Fire on the Empress. No problem. Vicky could give the order, and every gunner in her fleet would gladly jump to it.
Fire on her father, the Emperor? Fire lasers with the intent of killing Dad or at least killing men fighting for him?
Vicky found the question distasteful. No doubt she’d find the actual situation even more revolting.
Vicky smiled. She’d started a revolution and now found that if she faced the question at the heart of the matter, it was revolting to her.
“The Empress was the one trying to kill me. Dad, you’ve become little more than a middle-aged buffoon in my mind’s eye. But what will I do if I’m faced with you in all your buffoonery?”
Am I already facing it?
Vicky went looking for Commander Blue. She found him in his witch’s cave off the main corridor, the one with the unmarked door. She knocked. A second-class petty officer answered, then immediately let her in. Commander Blue was at a workstation.
As Vicky came in, the commander, a chief, and two first-class petty officers blanked their screens and stood to attention.
Vicky ignored the lack of trust, or the need to look at the raw data before letting their betters know how consulting the entrails had enlightened them.
“As you were,” she said, then added, “Commander, is there anyplace where we may talk in private?”
“This is a totally secure room, Your Grace.”
“I need to talk to you alone.”
Commander Blue nodded. “Chief, I need this room. Take the crew out for coffee.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the chief said, and fo
llowed the junior petty officers out of the room. He personally pulled the door shut, got a solid click, then tested it before leaving.
“What do you want, Your Grace?”
Vicky took a seat next to the commander. “I want to hear the message traffic that was exchanged between our light cruisers and the Empress’s merchant cruisers.”
“I don’t think there was any,” he said.
“That’s what I need to know. Was there any traffic, and if there was, what did the Empress’s cruisers have to say for themselves before they died?”
“Give me a moment, Your Grace,” the commander said, and turned to his station. He called up the visual he’d shown the assembled captains and admirals. It had no sound. He called up a second file that was rather more sketchy, but still had no attached audio file. A third file, even more visually degraded, came with audio.
“When do you think the bastards will quit yanking us around and do something for real?”
“Who’s that?” Vicky demanded.
“That’s the comm watch on the Halum and Ferwert. This recording covers all guard channels.”
“Keep your cool, Hermann. They will come when they come.”
“Do you think there were any people in those launches? For Christ’s sake. Would you volunteer to man something like that? Do you think that doll of a Grand Duchess would make us? Would you volunteer to do it if she offered you a night . . .”
“Shut up, Hermann. We’re supposed to guard these channels, not fill them up with your fantasies. Beside, we’re recording all traffic.”
“You’re recording all this?” ended with Hermann’s voice breaking with a high-pitched squeak.
“Yep.”
There was a long pause. “Could you maybe edit me out, at least that last bit?”
“No, and are you sure that your leading chief isn’t recording your traffic?”
There was quiet for a very long time.
“Here they come,” broke the silence. It was said simultaneously on several channels.
Then there were several kinds of statics, crackles, and pops.
“We got the bastards,” came only a few seconds later.
There was a long pause, and you could almost hear the panting of men trying to catch their breath. Realize they were still breathing.
“Here comes another one,” was again shouted by several voices.
“Damn!” “That wreck’s in the way!” “I can’t get a firing solution! Between its moving and the hulk’s rolling, the fire control computer can’t get a fix on the bandit.”
It went like that for a matter of seconds, then there were screams on several nets, cut off abruptly.
On other channels, there was a curt, “I got a solution.”
“Fire.”
“Thank God we got it,” came a few seconds later.
Vicky listened as the last few shots were fired, as some hits slashed into the Halum, but from the Empress’s ship on net she heard absolutely nothing.
“Can you isolate just the outside channels that we’re supposed to guard at all times? Rescue, contact, and the like?” Vicky asked.
The commander adjusted his board. Only four lines ran across the screen. They never wiggled for so much as a tiny spike, much less an entire message.
“They transmitted no message,” Vicky said finally.
“That is where we would have copied it, and there is nothing there, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
“You’re welcome, Admiral.”
Without saying another word, Vicky stood and headed for the door. He asked her no questions and she told him nothing, neither lie nor truth. He had no interest in what she needed to know. He would follow her orders because she gave them.
And she would give the orders she had to give.
So the Empress is being just as silent as those bug-eyed monsters that chased me and Kris Longknife across the galaxy.
But would that change?
Worse, would the Empress meet them with some computer-generated demand from Dad, the Emperor, for them to lay down their weapons and submit?
At the door, Vicky turned back to the commander.
“If we received an audio message, how long would it take you to examine it and find out whether it was a real message or had been patched together from a whole lot of speeches?”
“That would depend. If I had the data on the person already organized, I could do it in less than a minute. If I had to search the video file, it could take longer.”
“Call up all your files on my father, your Emperor.”
“Oh,” was all he said.
“Yes,” was Vicky’s response.
As she left, Commander Blue was on his commlink. “Chief, I need you to do a little search for me. I need you to do it yourself and keep it under your hat.”
Vicky was none too sure of what the future held, but she was preparing for it.
I am no castrated constitutional Grand Duchess. I’m in the decisions for this rebellion right up to where they will put the noose around my pretty neck.
CHAPTER 55
VICKY wasn’t sure where she was headed after her talk with the commander. Maybe she would just walk a bit. Think things over.
Several Sailors ran by her. One of them knocked her elbow.
“Sorry, ma’am. Admiral. Sir,” he stammered, but ran on.
An officer dashed by her at full speed. He had his act together enough to say formally, “By your leave, Admiral.” He even kind of saluted as he passed her at full gallop.
“What’s the all-fire hurry?” Vicky asked, but softly, half to herself. There had been no all hands announcement over the 1MC.
Her computer provided the start of an answer. “Admiral von Mittleburg requests your presence in his day quarters immediately, Your Grace.”
“You know why?” Vicky said as she turned and headed for Retribution’s quarterdeck.
“The destroyers Wolverine and Wombat have taken up station as jump-guard ships. The Halum was coming in at one gee. She’s now upped that to 1.5 gees. A priority one message just came in from the Wolverine.”
“And it said?” Vicky asked, not caring for how long this conversation was taking.
“I do not know, but the landline usage on the station and ships is about to overload the system.”
Another officer dashed past Vicky, leaving her fast-walking in his wake. He didn’t even remember to exchange courtesies.
Vicky reflected on how overloaded with survivors the Halum must be. The max she could push herself couldn’t be more than 1.5 gees.
Vicky took off at a full gallop. If anyone noticed a hard-charging Grand Duchess, they better just get out of her way.
On the quarterdeck, those coming aboard were being rushed in with little formality. Honors rendered to the OOD and the flag were hardly more than perfunctory. Vicky exited just as informally. The gangway going ashore was being used for more crew to come aboard.
Someone shouted “Make a hole for the admiral!” and a lot of Sailors and officers ducked to the left-hand side of the brow and came to attention.
“As you were,” Vicky said, and jogged quickly past them. She’d heard of fish that struggled to swim upstream. None had it as easy as her.
Aboard the station, there were a lot of people: Sailors, Marines, officers, and civilians racing from where they were to where they needed to be. Vicky joined the mob but soon found her way cleared by shouts of “Admiral coming through.” “Make a hole for the Grand Duchess,” and similar variations on those themes.
She got to Admiral von Mittleburg’s day quarters out of breath but fast.
He was alone with the yard superintendent, but he had Mannie’s face on a screen.
“What’s happening?” Vicky got out through gasps for breath. She hadn’t been working out nearly enough. She really needed to find a way of exercising with her security team that didn’t end up in bed.
“The Empress’s forces are breaking orbit and heading
for the jump,” the admiral said.
“So that’s what all the hubbub out there is about. People are running all about.”
“I haven’t given any orders,” the admiral said through a frown.
“Well, trust me,” Vicky said, “out there, it’s all hands forward lay aft. All hands aft lay forward. All hands amidships, stand by to direct traffic.”
The admiral blew out a breath. “I wonder who leaked it.”
“Does it matter?” Vicky said. “We’ve got a lot of eager sailormen who can’t wait for a fight. That sounds good to me.”
“Yes, yes. It is good. Now, Mr. Mayor, how much can you jack up production of rockets? Do you think you can get antimatter missiles into production?”
Vicky raised an eyebrow at Mannie. So you found out before me?
He was focused on the admiral, and something off screen and didn’t even look her way. I guess that’s good.
“The rockets are no problem,” Mannie answered. “We’ve got a new chemical plant coming online and two fabs to load both the rocket bodies and the warheads. We’ve even got that new proximity fuse. Antimatter missiles is where the rub comes in.”
“We got you the specs and plans for them.”
“Yes, but you only got them to us last week. We’ve been modifying every reactor on this planet to catch more of the occasional bit of antimatter, but catchment is just starting to pick up. Other than that, we’ve got the rocket motors ready to go into production and the warhead-containment vessels and ignition gear ready as well. But you have to understand: You’ll be trading antimatter missiles for conventional rockets. If we don’t have the antimatter, your missiles will be stuffed with high explosives, and that’s inefficient. The rockets carry a five-hundred-kilo warhead. The antimatter warhead, even with the weight of the superconducting containment vessel removed, can barely handle a hundred and fifty kilos of regular explosives.”
“I know, I know,” the admiral said. He looked tired and frustrated . . . and maybe a bit scared. “Build your antimatter missiles to meet your highest assumption for antimatter production. If we get them, it might just let us fight outnumbered two to one and win. If the reactors don’t come through, we’re hardly worse off than when we started.”
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