by David Weber
Miller seemed to draw back. “Really,” he said, his voice odd. “That’s very strange, Your Majesty. May I ask what the list was for?”
“A good question,” Elizabeth said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer. That’s why I invited you here today. Can you think of any reason Duke Burgundy would have wanted to bring you to my attention?”
“Not really, Your Majesty,” Miller said, frowning at the table’s centerpiece as if the answer might be hidden among the flower petals or the stem weavings. “At home, I’m a moderately successful farmer and rancher; here in Landing I’m a somewhat less esteemed MP who’s known mainly for his inability to know when to keep his mouth shut. I can’t see either of those items lifting me out of the mass of far more distinguished men and women.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Miller,” Elizabeth admonished him mildly. “Duke Burgundy put you on the list for a reason. We just have to figure out what set of abilities and interests he was selecting for.”
“Well, I wish you good luck, Your Majesty,” he said. “I’ll also think about it, of course, and I’ll certainly stand ready to help in any way I can. But right now, I’m completely at a loss.”
“I suppose we’ll just have to work on it together.” Elizabeth tapped the call button. “In the meantime, we also have a Chicken Kiev to work on. And while we eat, perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me about yourself.”
The two previous lunches had been pleasant enough. So, too, was this one. And it definitely made for a nice change from business lunches with various Lords, industrialist groups, or even close associates like Dapplelake.
Still, in the end it was a wash. Miller was a decent enough man, with a quick mind and a good sense of humor, at least what little of it he dared to let show in front of his Queen. But there was no chemistry between them that Elizabeth could sense. Nothing that might make Joshua Miller suitable to stand beside her as the Queen’s Consort.
Certainly not with the memory of Carmichael still so painfully fresh in her heart and soul.
But of course, the Constitution never mentioned chemistry. All it specified were the rules of the Monarch’s union, and the children of that union.
And as lunch ended, and Miller went on his way, she found herself wondering distantly if she’d suddenly been transported back to the pre-Diaspora middle ages.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In Llyn’s line of work, it was vital to understand the people he dealt with. Unfortunately, no matter how carefully he planned or how insightful his assessments, some of those people occasionally surprised him.
Syncho, it turned out, was among that group.
Or at least at the edge of it. There were two ships in orbit when the Pacemaker headed out: a courier ship and a mid-sized freighter. Llyn had assumed that the courier was the Volsung ship; instead, it was the freighter that took off before Llyn was halfway to the hyper limit.
And it was going fast, burning space at probably ninety percent of the ship’s capability.
On paper, at least, the freighter appeared to be the property of the system governor. But a little digging through the records revealed that it had just been transferred to him by anonymous parties, undoubtedly the Volsungs. Apparently, Syncho had borrowed it back for the purpose of running a message to Gensonne.
Whether or not he had permission to commandeer it was, of course, a different question. Llyn guessed the governor and Gensonne would be having words somewhere down the line.
Still, the subterfuge was a waste of effort. Llyn had carefully bracketed the system with his three ships, and while Syncho’s vector was clearly designed to make sure Pacemaker couldn’t change course to intercept him, Shrike was already in position to follow.
When Syncho finally escaped into hyperspace, he had a tail.
The tail, as per Llyn’s orders, had returned to Telmach four days later, with Captain Vaagen reporting on Syncho’s efforts to lose him or at least draw him away from the Volsung base. But again, the merc’s efforts went nowhere. By the time Shrike returned, Hester had hacked, sliced, tweaked, and frauded her way through every one of the captured computer’s security barriers and reached the precious data within.
And Llyn finally had the location of Gensonne’s secret base.
Walther was only eight light-years from Telmach, containing a single habitable planet that no one yet had seen fit to develop or even inhabit. Apparently, that was a pattern in Silesia: someone would stake claim to a planet or system, just to have their ownership on record, and invest in a few hundred colonists or an orbiting frigate to make the claim viable. Later, if the owner felt like it, he might put some real time and money into developing the place.
How Gensonne had gotten permission to park himself and the Volsungs’ orbiting base here Llyn didn’t know. Best guess was that he’d done the owner some off-the-books favor, probably involving violence and firepower.
Gensonne’s main stock in trade. The question right now was whether the Volsungs were about to trot out some of that same merchandise.
“Anything new on the ship out there?” Llyn asked.
“Almost within decent sensor range,” Katura said. “You did say you had a plan for this reunion, correct?”
“I have four of them,” Llyn assured him. “Depending on the scenario we end up in.”
“Yes, Sir,” Katura said, not sounding completely convinced.
Llyn couldn’t really blame him. Until they had more data, there were so many possibilities and variables.
Still, Llyn had a fair amount of experience with this sort of thing. He was pretty sure he had everything covered.
Scenario One: The Volsungs ran when they saw the Manticorans’ firepower and are undamaged. Plan A: Regroup and discuss how to hit them again.
“Sensor data’s coming in now from Banshee, Sir,” Katura said. “It’s definitely a battlecruiser, though still no ID. Captain Rhamas reports that the dorsal radiator vanes are non-functional and that the starboard sidewall is having some issues with flickering.”
“Thank you,” Llyn said, rubbing his cheek. Banshee, traveling parallel to Pacemaker and a thousand kilometers above it, had far better sensors and analysis equipment than Llyn’s simple courier ship did. He couldn’t verify Banshee’s conclusion, but he also had no reason to doubt it.
And Rhamas’s analysis was quite telling. A radiator problem could be internal, but adding in a flickering sidewall strongly suggested battle damage. Odds were that the battlecruiser approaching them was one of the ships Gensonne had taken to Manticore.
So much for Scenario One.
The question now was why Gensonne had sent a damaged ship to meet Llyn. To underscore what had happened there? “Still no response to our hail, I assume?”
“No, sir,” Katura said. “Do you want me to send it again?”
“No, let’s try something new,” Llyn decided. The standard hail was pretty generic. Time to perhaps sweeten the pot a bit. “Put a com laser on him. Let me know when it’s ready.”
Scenario Two: The Volsungs were hit hard and retreated. Gensonne or his replacement is ready to try again. Plan B: Regroup, repair, rearm, and discuss how to hit the Manticorans again.
“Ready, sir.”
Llyn tapped the key.
“This is Jeremiah Llyn calling for Admiral Gensonne,” he said into the mic. “I’m bringing your second payment, ready for delivery. I assume you’re our escort?”
He stopped, waiting for the short time delay—
“Llyn, you have one hell of a nerve coming here,” Gensonne’s voice boomed from the speaker.
“Ah—Admiral,” Llyn said calmly. “I thought that was probably you. You’re very quick off the blocks—we only entered the system a hundred forty minutes ago.”
“Don’t be so surprised—I knew you were coming,” Gensonne growled. “While you were busy following the freighter, Syncho signaled one of my other ships in the system, which slipped away right under your nose and brought me the news that you
were back. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t blow you out of the sky.”
“I’ll give you two reasons,” Llyn said, feeling sweat gathering under his shirt collar. He’d expected Gensonne to be angry, but there was a viciousness in the mercenary’s voice that went far beyond anything he’d been prepared for. “One: as I said, I’m carrying your second payment for what you did at Manticore. Two: I want to talk to you about a resetting for another try at them—”
“What we did was mostly get our butts kicked,” Gensonne shot back as the first part of the message did its turnaround. “Thanks to you and your useless data on their fleet. That little expedition cost me two of my battlecruisers, and I swear to God that I’m taking it out of your hide.”
Llyn waited another second, just to make sure he’d gotten the whole tirade. “I understand your anger,” he said. “That brings me to point two: I want to discuss how our second approach will be different and more successful.”
“If you think I have any interest in working with you ever again, you’re badly mistaken,” Gensonne ground out.
“I’m hoping I can change your mind,” Llyn said. “We first need to talk about what happened at—”
“Are you listening?” Gensonne cut him off. “We’re out. We’ll take our payment, and you will take a hike. Where’s our cargo?”
“As I said, we have it,” Llyn said with a sigh. All the work of setting this up, now straight down the drain.
So much for Scenario Two.
Scenario Three: The Volsungs were hit hard. Gensonne or his replacement is unwilling to try again. Plan C: Pay them off and begin search for a new mercenary group.
“I mean which of your ships is it on?” Gensonne asked.
A small red flag popped up in the back of Llyn’s mind. He tapped the mute key—
“Katura, signal Banshee to double-check all sensors,” he said. Gensonne had known Llyn was coming in, and he’d known where they were coming in from, which meant he’d had a pretty good idea where Pacemaker and Banshee would enter the system. “I’m looking for a ship lying doggo, probably somewhere behind us.”
“Yes, Sir,” Katura said, keying his com.
Llyn hit the mute key again. “As you requested, it’s in the form of equipment and tech,” he told Gensonne.
“I know that,” Gensonne said impatiently. “I asked which ship is was aboard.”
“Sir?” Katura murmured tensely.
Llyn gestured him to be silent. “Pacemaker is a courier ship,” he said. “Banshee is a freighter. See if you can figure it out.”
“Thank you,” Gensonne said, his voice icy.
Llyn hit the mute button again. “You were saying, Captain?” he invited.
“I was going to say, Sir, that that might not be the best thing—” Katura broke off as a warbling alarm filled the bridge. “Missile trace!” he snapped.
Llyn swallowed hard as the trace appeared on the tactical. It was a missile, all right—the acceleration profile made that abundantly clear—coming as expected from somewhere aft of them.
So much for Scenario Three.
Though it was a very slow missile, at least by modern standards, with an acceleration coming in under two thousand gees. That probably gave it more range before its impellers burned out; on the flip side, the lower acceleration also gave Llyn nearly four minutes to figure out his response.
Still, a missile was a missile, and as such was a highly expensive piece of military hardware. What did Gensonne hope to accomplish by throwing that kind of money at him? Especially since all Pacemaker had to do was pitch wedge, and the missile would shatter against her stress bands.
Unless Gensonne had something else up his sleeve.
“Sir?” Katura prompted tensely. “Do we pitch wedge?”
Llyn stared at the trace. At this distance it was impossible to tell which of the two Axelrod ships the missile was aimed at. Assuming Gensonne still wanted his payment, and given that he’d just told the self-styled admiral it was aboard Banshee…
“Order Captain Vaagen to pitch wedge against the missile,” he told Katura.
“Yes, Sir. And us?”
Llyn pursed his lips. “I think, Captain, it’s time for another round of chicken.” He braced himself. “Strike our wedge.”
He turned to see Katura’s mouth drop open. For a moment the two men stared at each other. Then Katura closed his mouth again, and nodded. “Helm: Strike wedge,” he ordered. He lowered his voice. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Sir.”
Llyn nodded. So did he.
He hit the com button again. “Admiral Gensonne,” he said.
“I’m here,” Gensonne said. “I see you’ve struck your wedge. Are you surrendering?”
“If I am, are you calling off your attack?”
“I don’t know,” Gensonne said. “How much groveling are you prepared to do?”
“No groveling,” Llyn said. “But there is one more factor you need to consider. I told you earlier there were two reasons why you shouldn’t blow me out of the sky. There are actually three.”
“A second and a third payment?”
“In a sense,” Llyn said. “I liked your idea of infiltrating the Manticore system using ships coasting with their wedges down. I liked it so much, in fact, that I decided to use it on you.”
There was a short pause, longer than the simple time-delay.
“What are you talking about?” Gensonne demanded cautiously.
“I’m talking about my other ship,” Llyn said. “The one that came in quietly several days ago. The one that will shortly be coming into missile range of your base.
“The one that just saw my wedge go down, and assumes I’ve been destroyed.”
This time, the pause was longer.
“You’re bluffing.”
“I’m bluffing?” Llyn scoffed. “Is that the best you can come up with? That I’m bluffing?”
“You might as well be,” Gensonne shot back. “You really think my base isn’t fully prepared to repulse an attack? We have ships at the ready, plus station-mounted autocannon and counter-missile banks. Your missiles and ship won’t even get close.”
“Who said I was targeting your base?” Llyn countered. “You do realize the Eridani Edict only applies to inhabited planets, right?”
“You—” Gensonne broke off. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Llyn assured him. “Granted, I don’t know exactly what would happen if my ship fired a full load of missiles into the planet’s surface with their wedges still active. Or, for that matter, what would happen if the missiles hit after the wedges have burned out.”
“Damn it, there are people down there,” Gensonne snapped. But there was a little less bite to his tone. “There are dependents, troops—”
“Not officially,” Llyn reminded him. “On paper, Walther is completely uninhabited. Good luck making any claims or accusations stick. As I was saying, I’m guessing we’re talking torn-up crust and explosively ejected atmosphere, both of which will have a serious effect even at the distance your base is orbiting. But that’s just an assumption. Shall we invoke the name of science and find out for sure?”
There was a long, hissing sigh. “I’m not convinced anything would reach the base,” Gensonne said. “But point taken. I assume you have a way of calling him off?”
“Of course: raising my wedge again,” Llyn said. “So shall we end this nonsense? I still have a proposal for you, and I’d like to present it without death hanging over either of us.”
Another long pause. “Fine,” Gensonne said. His tone was still angry, but there was a new mix of caution and surliness added in. “Don’t worry about the missile—it’s an old practice missile I picked up awhile back. Antique, plus no warhead. I just wanted to make a point.”
“That you didn’t need me?” Llyn suggested.
“That you mess with the Volsung Mercenaries at your own risk,” Gensonne said darkly. “That includes your bosses. And trust me, I
never forget. Whatever you’re offering, whatever you think you can do to make me forget all this, that won’t happen. Ever.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Llyn said, his eyes on the missile trace. It was still incoming.
“So are you going to raise your wedge?” Gensonne prompted.
“Once the missile is gone,” Llyn said.
There was another pause…and then, on the display, the missile vanished as someone on the battlecruiser sent the self-destruct code.
“Thank you,” Llyn said. “That makes things much more civilized. “Actually, this whole incident segues rather nicely to my comment earlier about planning our next attack. As you’ve just demonstrated, your missiles are a hodgepodge of ages, styles, and efficiencies. I’m thinking that what we need to take down Manticore is something a bit more up-to-date.”
“How up-to-date?”
“Very,” Llyn assured him. “Shall we discuss the details at your base?”
“Assuming it’s still there?”
Llyn gestured to Katura, who gestured in turn to the helmsman. On the status display, Pacemaker’s wedge reappeared.
“Your base will be fine,” Llyn assured Gensonne, eying their relative vectors and running a quick mental calculation. “Looks like you’ll arrive a few hours behind us. You might want to send word back regarding my accommodations. Nothing fancy—I’d be happy to just make myself comfortable in your office, if you’d like.”
“We have more than enough room for you to have a place of your own.”
“Good,” Llyn said. “I also suggest you have someone assemble the files of the battle for me. I need to know exactly what happened, and if I go through them now you won’t have to sit around later with your feet up while I read.”
“You’ll have them.” Gensonne paused. “Just remember who it is you’re dealing with.”
“Of course,” Llyn said. “Don’t you forget, either.”
“I won’t,” Gensonne said softly. “Have a safe journey, Mr. Llyn. I’ll look forward to hearing about these missiles.”
“I’m sure you’ll find the conversation most interesting,” Llyn said. “I’ll see you back at your base.”