by David Weber
“I’m sure we all have a lot to do still today,” he said, “so I’d like to restrict this morning’s session to a quick overview. To be honest, one of the serious mistakes we’d settled into before this entire thing blew up in our faces was a failure to keep everybody in the loop. I realize the galaxy is a big place and we’ve always had a lot of irons in the fire. There’s no way we could possibly keep everyone attending today fully informed on everything all of us separately have going on. Can’t be done. But what we need to do—and what we haven’t been doing—is to have regular meetings at this level in which anything that’s risen to the top of our own departmental to-do list gets aired. By not doing that, we’ve deprived ourselves of the advantage of outside viewpoints that might have had something important to add. I don’t know that any of us had anything hidden away in our files that might have warned us this shit storm was coming. I do know that none of us realized we did if we did, though. People, we can’t afford to let crap get past us any longer.”
He looked around the briefing room—and the displays—and his blue eyes were cold. The others looked back, and if any of them disagreed with him, at least they had the good sense to keep their mouths shut. Not surprisingly, perhaps, given how ruthlessly he’d weeded the senior officers he’d inherited from Rajampet Rajani. In fact, this was the first time several of the attendees had been present in their brand new roles.
It was unfortunate that some of his remaining…legacy senior officers were so well-connected he hadn’t been able to get rid of them even now. He didn’t like that. But most of the names on his short list belonged to people who were at least smart enough to know they were also on his shit list, and as the severity of the situation seeped deeper into the minds of their patrons, they could probably feel the ice getting thinner underfoot.
In most cases, at any rate.
He paused a moment to consider two of his happier additions. He’d finally managed to get rid of Karl-Heinz Thimár, who’d headed the Office of Naval Intelligence for far too long under Rajampet, after one of the most vicious bureaucratic turf wars in recent Solarian memory. Thimár’s…lack of brilliance had become abundantly clear as the SLN fell deeper and deeper into the crapper, but he’d been so thoroughly in bed with the defense industry that it had been all but impossible to fire him. The one good thing about what the Manties had done at Prime and in the Hypatia was that it had finally underscored—with surviving raw Solarian tactical data no one could argue had been doctored by the Manties—the inferiority of even the Navy’s newest weapons. Coupled with Thimár’s deep involvement in the Fleet 2000 Program, the “modernization program” everyone now realized had been purely cosmetic, that evidence had been enough for Kingsford to finally boot his incompetent arse out the door. Thimár had found himself not only displaced from ONI but beached, with no ongoing role in the war at all…thank God. At least Kingsford had accomplished that much.
Not, unfortunately, without making himself a lot of new and implacable enemies. Most of them seemed to adhere to the theory that Thimár was being scapegoated for other’s mistakes—including those of one Winston Kingsford—and those enemies were waiting almost eagerly for him to screw up spectacularly enough to be sacked. He knew that, but if that was the price of doing business, then so be it. And he was determined to get a little competency into place before any impending axes landed on his own neck.
Admiral Heinrich Bergman, Thimár’s replacement, was a case in point. Little more than half his predecessor’s age, he was also very new to his rank; Kingsford had jumped him over at least a dozen other flag officers, which had undoubtedly made him a lot of enemies, as well. Like Kingsford, however, Bergman seemed prepared to worry about that once the shooting was over. He was tall but quick-moving, with brown hair and eyes and one of the darkest complexions Kingsford had ever seen. He was also aggressive and smart, and he was energetically attacking the train wreck Thimár had left him at ONI. He’d held his new position for barely a month at this point, however, and how successful he’d be at clubbing all the alligators remained to be seen.
But at least I’ve been able to give him some support, Kingsford thought, moving his gaze to Vice Admiral Karen Clarke.
Clarke’s hair and eyes were even darker than Bergman’s, but despite her last name, her complexion was very pale. She was twenty T-years older than her new boss—indeed, she was one of the people he’d been jumped over, and Kingsford had very carefully considered her for the top intelligence slot before settling on Bergman—but if she resented that, she’d shown no indication of it. Maybe that was because she realized she was far too valuable as Rosalinda Hoover’s replacement for ONI’s Section Two, the Office of Technical Analysis. She wasn’t one of the most brilliant officers in the SLN, but she had the sort of clear, incisive mind which might have been expressly designed for taking problems apart and identifying their components, then finding solutions for them one by one. She was one of the most original thinkers the SLN had produced in recent memory, she was brilliant as an organizer and manager, and she got along very well with Tory Kindrick at Systems Development Command. That was possibly the most vital single connection in the entire Solarian League Navy, under the circumstances, and she and Bergman were chopping their way through the undergrowth in a powerful and effective partnership. If only they’d had less kudzu to cross…
And if only I could get rid of Cheng, the CNO thought glumly. Why the hell anyone would want to prop him up is more than I can understand, but somebody sure as hell does!
Kingsford knew where the visible support for Cheng Hai-shwun, the CO of Operational Analysis, was coming from. What he couldn’t imagine was why Nathan MacArtney was so damned determined to keep a man who was so obviously incompetent in such a critical position. Everything suggested that someone else had to be whispering in MacArtney’s ear, and very compellingly, at that. Worse, whoever it was clearly had influence with Malachai Abruzzi, as well. But why? And what sort of influence could make them support a hack like Cheng at a time like this? MacArtney and Abruzzi knew even better than most how deep a hole the League was in, and MacArtney, in particular, as the Permanent Senior Undersecretary of the Interior, was the one watching the Protectorates erode right out from under him. So what in hell could be influencing him to protect someone like Cheng?
Until Kingsford figured that out, there wasn’t a lot he could do about the situation at OpAn. The fact that all the Mandarins knew he and MacArtney despised one another—and that Abruzzi wasn’t very high on his list of favorite people, either—made it difficult to enlist any of the others’ support in this instance. Kolokoltsov was coming around—probably—but even he seemed unable to free himself of the suspicion that personal animosity was at play. Unless Kingsford could provide him with convincing evidence that MacArtney and Abruzzi were being influenced—or coerced—into backing someone they knew was incompetent, he was unlikely to step in.
But even with Cheng still screwing around at OpAn, I’ve got the critical bases covered, he reminded himself. God knows I need better analysis of the tac data for Bernard and her people at Strategy and Planning, and it would be nice to have a better feel for what the hell the Manties think they’re doing. I know it’s not what any of the Mandarins think they’re doing, but that’s not a lot of help. Until I can get some kind of handle on the “Grand Alliance’s” real war aims, building the best strategy to stop them is likely to be just a bit difficult. But at least with Bergman in the CO’s office at ONI and Clarke and Kindrick digging in on the technical side, I’ve got my best shot at surviving long enough to get rid of Cheng and figure out what the hell is really going on.
“All right,” he said, and made himself smile at Admiral Cheng, “why don’t we start with a look at Hypatia.” Despite himself, his smile turned a bit thinner and colder. “What can your people at OpAn tell us, Hai-shwun?”
Presidential Palace
and
Belinda’s Bar
City of Landing
Meroa S
ystem
“Do you believe this shit?” System President Adenauer Kellogg demanded.
It was hard to determine whether the president was more furious or incredulous, Johannes Stankiewicz reflected. Kellogg was a quintessential product of the Meroa System’s crony capitalism. Like his fellows, he regarded the star system’s economy as his own personal cookie jar—with, Stankiewicz admitted, rather more justification than many. He’d been system president for almost forty T-years now, and the Office of Frontier Security had been his quiet sponsor for thirty-five of them.
Stankiewicz was more aware of that than most, since he’d been Kellogg’s OFS “advisor” for the last fifteen T-years, during which quite a few crumbs had come his way from that same cookie jar. As such, he might reasonably have been as furious as Kellogg himself. What he actually felt, however, was much closer to panic. When Old Chicago heard about this, the career of one Johannes Stankiewicz was coming to a screeching halt. In fact, he’d be lucky if that was all that happened to him.
“How could your people possibly have missed something like this?!” Kellogg went on, directing his ire at Minister of Internal Security Reinhard Freeman.
That, Stankiewicz reflected, was an excellent question…and the one he was certain Old Chicago was going to ask him, as well. Unfortunately, Meroa, while a fee-paying member of the Protectorates in all but name, was technically an independent star nation. It was also one where there’d been remarkably little visible unrest since the Argo III Incident of 1898. Because of which, there was no official Gendarmerie presence in Meroa and he’d become accustomed to relying on Freeman and the Meroan Citizen Protection Force for intelligence assessments.
Big mistake, Johannes, he thought now.
“We don’t know we have missed anything,” Freeman protested. “All we’ve got so far is Manticore’s and Barregos’s unsupported word for all of it! You know the Manties have to be looking for any lever they can find, and as for Barregos—! Do you really think a man who’s in the process of openly rebelling against the League is going to worry a hell of a lot about telling us the truth—or even about whether or not he was told the truth!—instead of whatever serves his purpose is best?”
“Colonel?” Kellogg said, turning his glower upon the slight, blond-haired woman seated at Freeman’s elbow.
Colonel Jessica Myhrvold commanded the Meroan Citizen Protection Force, the system-wide unitary police force responsible for criminal investigations…when it could spare the time from hunting down any potential threats to the Kellogg regime’s authority. Despite her relatively low official rank, she was actually one of the most powerful members of the Meroan establishment, and the anger in Kellogg’s expression wasn’t very surprising, given the resources poured into the MCPF. But Myhrvold’s hazel eyes met the system president’s steely glare without flinching.
“I’m afraid I can’t fully support Minister Freeman’s argument, Sir,” she said.
Freeman bristled visibly and opened his mouth, but Kellogg’s chopping hand motion shut it again.
“Expand on that,” the president said coldly.
“Mister President,” Myhrvold said carefully, “we’ve actually seen several what you might call ‘straws in the wind’ over the last eight to twelve T-months. None of them were strong enough to suggest anything like this to my investigators, but there’s been growing evidence—especially among the belters and miners—that something called the Meroa Resistance Movement is out there.”
“And why have I never heard of this—what did you call it? ‘Meroa Resistance Movement’?” Kellogg demanded in an even icier tone.
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question, Mister President,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t report directly to you in these matters,” she replied in a painfully neutral tone, and Kellogg’s eyes swiveled back to Freeman like twin missile tubes.
“Should I assume from the Colonel’s response, that she did report this to you, Johannes?”
“Well, yes.” Freeman was less than happy, and the anger in his eyes boded ill for Myhrvold’s future. Unless there was a change in Ministers of Internal Security, Stankiewicz reflected. “But there’s always some loudmouth out there, Adenauer! You know that as well as I do. The rabble gets filled up with cheap beer and overinflated egos and mouths start shooting off, and those dimwit belters are the worst of the lot.” He shook his head in disgust. “If we spent all our time worrying about lowbrow blowhards, we’d never get anything done!”
And that, Stankiewicz thought tartly, is probably the reason all of you are about to get the chop, Minister. You really are an idiot, aren’t you?
That was probably a bit unfair, which didn’t bother Stankiewicz much at the moment. In fact, however, Freeman wasn’t an idiot. No one would ever accuse him of brilliance, but he didn’t have to be reminded to wipe drool off his chin, either. What he was, unfortunately, was a product of the Meroan elite’s “bubble.”
OFS had seen the same thing again and again in the façade democracies it propped up throughout the Fringe. People at the apex felt unbridled contempt for the people who spent their lives laboring to support their “betters” in the style to which they had become accustomed. After all, if those lesser being had mattered, they’d have been the ones making the decisions, right? The fact that they weren’t was directly attributable to their inherent inferiority and general stupidity, not the inequality of opportunity.
It wasn’t that hard to understand. God knew Stankiewicz had seen the same thinking inside the League. In fact, it was part and parcel of the entire inside-the-Kuiper community…which undoubtedly helped explain why the entire fricking galaxy was blowing up in the League’s face.
“Obviously, this is one batch of ‘blowhards’ we should have been worrying about.” Kellogg bit out each word like a pulser dart, and Freeman flushed darkly. The system president glared at him for another few seconds, then sat back, laid his forearms on his chair’s armrests, and inhaled deeply.
“All right,” he said finally. “How things got this fucked up is less important—at the moment—than the fact that they are. And it’s not like all our problems are homegrown anymore, is it? So the question becomes, what do we do about it?” He bared his teeth in something no one would ever have mistaken for a smile. “Any suggestions?”
* * *
“Do you believe this shit?” Gottfried McAnally demanded.
He looked around the quiet table in the back corner of Belinda’s Bar and saw the same stunned expressions on the other three people sitting with him.
“You tell me, Boss,” Michael van Wyk said. “You’re the one who was talking to the Manties. You really think it was all a setup?”
“I don’t know!”
McAnally raised both hands and waved them in frustration. He was a huge man, over a hundred and ninety centimeters tall, with dark auburn hair, a full—but neatly trimmed—beard, and hard brown eyes. At the moment, those eyes looked even harder than they normally did, but there was an unusual edge of something like uncertainty in their depths.
That was a quality one seldom associated with Gottfried McAnally. He was as pugnacious as he was physically tough, his natural inclination was to go through an obstacle, rather than around it, and he generally knew exactly what he meant to accomplish. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of subtlety. The fact that he’d built the Meroa Resistance Movement from a handful of hard-core, roughneck asteroid miners who were the next best thing to anarchists into a tightly organized force on the brink of what looked like almost certain victory was a testimony to that.
At the moment, however, there was very little “subtlety” in his expression.
“Calm down, Gottfried,” the petite—well, in comparison to him—woman on the other side of the table said. He glared at her, but Seiko McAnally seemed remarkably unfazed by it. Which probably had something to do with the fact that she’d been married to him for the last twenty T-years.
; “Stop taking it as some sort of personal affront, and think about it,” she continued sternly. “I wouldn’t want you to get a swelled head or anything, but the fact is that your brain actually works…when you remember to engage it. So, turn it on, fly boy!”
The other woman at the table laughed.
“That’s the spirit, Seiko!” Belinda McCleskey, McAnally’s aunt, shook her finger under his nose. “Listen to your smarter half, boyo!”
McAnally glowered at her, but he also smiled. Reluctantly, perhaps, but smiled, then nodded in acknowledgment of the needed lighter moment.
“That’s not a bad notion,” he said, after a moment, reaching across to touch Seiko’s hand where it lay on the tabletop. “Too bad I don’t have any more information or insight than the rest of you do. Yeah, I’m the one who was talking to the ‘Manties,’ but I kept you three in the loop on all of it. So, come down to it, I guess the real answer is…I just don’t know.”
The others sat back, chewing on that unpalatable fact. McAnally made himself wait while they masticated, and while he waited, he faced a few unpalatable thoughts of his own. Like the fact that he really didn’t want Oravil Barregos’s envoy to have been telling the truth.
Gottfried McAnally had been only seventeen when his Uncle Leopold, Belinda McCleskey’s husband, and a dozen other men and women died on the Argo III extraction platform. Technically, they’d been occupying it illegally for almost a T-month before the Meroan System Patrol and the Citizen Protection Force moved in. They’d offered no violence to anyone, and they’d caused no damage, but that didn’t matter when the MCPF got its orders. They’d been told to make an example. To discourage any of the other contract miners—and the last handful of independents had been forced into indentured contracts over the preceding fifteen T-years—from getting uppity. From demanding safety equipment be regularly inspected and replaced at need. From insisting their contract delivery rates had to at least pay for their reactor mass and let them put food on their families’ tables. From suggesting they might have any legitimate voice in the decrees Management handed down like Zeus thundering from Olympus.