A Rising Thunder

by David Weber

  “Excuse me, Your Grace,” Andrea Jaruwalski said. “The forward recon platforms confirm their superdreadnoughts are deploying pods.”

  “Deploying them? Or were they towing them all along and we just now noticed them?”

  “Deploying, Your Grace,” Jaruwalski said firmly. “They must have had them tractored inside their wedges.”

  “You were wondering if that accounted for their accel rate, Your Grace?” Brigham asked, and Honor nodded.

  “It would have been one explanation. Any sign their acceleration’s dropping further now that they’ve deployed, Andrea?”

  “Not so far, at least, Your Grace,” Jaruwalski responded, “and given the numbers they seem to have deployed, maintaining their current accel has to be pushing up their compensator loads by a good eight to ten percent. So I’d say the fact that they’re not reducing power is a sign they’re feeling pretty serious.”

  “Point,” Brigham conceded. “The thing I’m wondering most about is what’s in the pods, though. Last time I looked, the Sollies didn’t have any missile pods.”

  “You’re thinking about those Technodyne pods Terekhov ran into at Monica, Ma’am?” Jaruwalski said thoughtfully.

  “Something like that. Or whatever the hell Mesa used against Roszak at Congo.” Brigham shrugged. “Either way, I don’t think they’d bother with them unless they were stuffed with something they figure is superior to their standard tube-launched birds. I don’t like the thought that they might have a point about that, but if they are thinking that way, it’s going to have at least some impact on how willing—and eager—they are to bring it to us.”

  “I think you’re exactly right,” Honor said. “And bearing that in mind, I also think it’s time we welcomed our visitors.” She looked at Brantley. “Ready, Harper?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And are you ready?” Honor asked, turning to Theisman with a crooked smile.

  “Oh, I believe you could say that, Your Grace,” he replied. “And I’m sure Lester is, too.”

  “Then just make sure you’re out of the pickup’s field of view until the appropriate moment.”

  She made shooing motions, and Nimitz bleeked in laughter as the Havenite Secretary of Defense obeyed the gesture. The ’cat’s skinsuit kept him from flirting his tail the way he would have under other circumstances, but his amusement was obvious, and Springs from Above (who’d been fitted with his own skinsuit) laughed back from Theisman’s shoulder.

  Honor waited another moment to make sure everyone was where he or she was supposed to be, then nodded to Jaruwalski.

  “Send Cantata through to Admiral Tourville, Andrea.”

  * * *

  “We’ve got clearance, Skipper!” Brynach Lacharn said suddenly. “Number seven in the queue!”

  Hamilton Trudeau looked up in surprise at the announcement. He hadn’t really expected the Manties to let DB 17025 make transit at all, and certainly not this early in the queue. Maybe the people who’d picked the INS cover weren’t as dim as he’d thought they were.

  “All right, Tommy,” he said briskly, turning to Ensign Thomasina Tsiang, the dispatch boat’s astrogator and third in command, “get us in line! The last thing we need is to miss our slot now that they’ve given us one.”

  “Aye, Skipper.”

  The dispatch boat was small enough for Tsiang, who enjoyed being hands-on whenever possible, to take the helm herself instead of simply passing orders to someone else, and DB 17025 accelerated smoothly, sliding out of the mass of waiting freighters and passenger liners. Trudeau suspected there were some alarmingly high blood pressures on the bridges of the ships they were leaving behind, but that was fine with him. He only wished he had some better intelligence—like any intelligence—on how the rest of Operation Raging Justice was making out.

  Somehow, he felt sure, Admiral Tsang would probably wish the same thing.

  * * *

  “Are we sure this is a good idea, Ma’am?”

  Christopher Dombroski’s tone sounded more than a bit doubtful as he watched the dispatch boat’s icon moving towards the terminus to Beowulf.

  “Define ‘good idea,’” Admiral Stephania Grimm replied with a wry smile.

  “Well, it just seems to me it would have been simpler all around to sit on them,” Captain Dombroski said. “I mean, they wouldn’t be going anywhere without our permission. We could’ve just kept them cooling their heels right here until it was all over one way or the other, without ever bringing the Beowulf end into it at all. Seems to me that keeping Beowulf up our sleeve as a holdout card in case we need to play it even worse later on might have a lot to recommend itself.”

  “In some ways, I’m inclined to agree with you,” Grimm acknowledged. Given their positions and the role they had to play, she and Dombroski knew quite a lot about the thinking behind this part of the plan. And in Grimm’s opinion, the captain had a very valid point. But …

  “It’d be a hard call for me, either way,” she said finally. “I’m sure it was for everyone else involved, too. In fact, even though no one’s told me this in so many words, I think it was ultimately the Beowulfers who made the decision, not anyone at our end. And I think the deciding factor was probably that they’re really and truly royally pissed off at this Mesan Alignment. There’s no way in this universe they’re going to sit on the sidelines when we go after them, and they’re about as disgusted as anyone could possibly get with the way Kolokoltsov and the Mandarins have botched the entire situation. For that matter, they’re disgusted as hell with all the rest of the League for letting itself get turned into such a bitched-up mess instead of a star nation in the first place. So this is their way of punctuating all the reasons they’re doing what they’re doing—jumping ship to sign up with us, I mean. And I think they want to draw Admiral Tsang in, get her to openly commit to her part of ‘Operation Raging Justice,’ so they’ll have that additional evidence of just how fast and loose with the League Constitution Kolokoltsov’s apparatchiks are really willing to play.”

  She paused, lips pursed in thought, then shrugged.

  “Anyway, senior and better-paid heads made the decision, not us, so that’s the way it’s going to be. And”—she smiled slightly—“I have to admit I’m going to be interested as hell to see how it all works out in the end.”

  * * *

  “All right, Harper,” Honor said as she watched HMS Cantata’s icon disappear from her plot. “Why don’t you go ahead and put me through to Admiral Filareta now?”

  * * *

  “Fleet Admiral, we have an incoming communications request.”

  Filareta glanced at Admiral Burrows and arched one eyebrow at the announcement. At 14,875,000 kilometers, the grossly outnumbered Manty wall of battle remained motionless, holding position relative to the planet, fifty light-seconds from his own far larger formation. He was astonished that they hadn’t even begun accelerating away from him, but he wasn’t going to complain about it.

  “I wondered how much longer it would take them,” he said.

  “Frankly, I’m surprised they managed to wait this long, Sir!” Burrows replied with a harsh chuckle.

  “Who’s the message from, Reuben?” Filareta continued, turning his back on the main plot to face Captain Reuben Sedgewick, his staff communications officer.

  “It’s from Admiral Harrington, Sir,” Sedgewick replied, but there was something odd about his tone, and Filareta frowned. Any light-speed com request had to be coming from Tango Two if it had reached them this soon, and he was a little surprised Harrington was there, instead of with Tango One. But that wasn’t enough to account for the odd note in Sedgewick’s response.

  “Is there a problem, Reuben?”

  His own tone was a bit colder than it had been.

  “It’s just …” Sedgewick paused, then shrugged very slightly. “It’s just that she asked for you, specifically, by name, Fleet Admiral. And she, ah, asked for you as the commanding officer of Eleventh Fleet.”
>
  Filareta felt his expression stiffen. He gazed at the com officer a moment longer, then looked back at Burrows. The chief of staff’s amusement had vanished, and he met his superior’s eyes with a frown.

  “So much for operational security,” Filareta observed.

  “Yes, Sir.” Burrows shook his head in disgust. “Somebody must have blabbed back on Old Terra.”

  “One of the many joyful disadvantages of having to come the long way round while the other side can get intelligence reports directly through the damn Junction.”

  Filareta’s light tone was almost whimsical; his expression was not.

  “I wonder how long they’ve known?” Burrows continued, thinking out loud.

  “That is an interesting thought, isn’t it?”

  Filareta showed his teeth. Burrows had an excellent point. If the Manties had learned of his orders far enough in advance, there was no telling what sort of welcome they might have decided to set up.

  Stop it, he told himself firmly. Yes, they must have known you were coming, but knowing a two hundred-kilo sumo wrestler is about to rip your head off doesn’t help a lot if you weigh fifty kilos dripping wet. It only means you can watch it coming longer, not that you can get out of the way. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you can beat the bastard once he gets his hands on you!

  “Time to the hyper limit, Yvonne?” he asked calmly.

  “Just under six minutes, Fleet Admiral. Call it one-point-five-seven million klicks.”

  “Thank you.”

  Filareta looked at Burrows again. Their current velocity, relative to Sphinx, was up to 3,882 KPS; by the time they crossed the hyper limit, it would be up to over five thousand, exactly as Approach Bravo specified. At that velocity, it would take twenty-six minutes just to decelerate to zero, and they’d be the next best thing to 3.9 million kilometers inside the limit when they did. From that position, they’d need another twenty-six minutes to get back across the limit, where they could reenter hyper-space.

  All of which meant they theoretically had six minutes in which they could break off with relative impunity … after which they would be stuck inside the Manticore-A limit for the next best thing to an hour.

  Interesting timing, a corner of his mind thought. Did they wait this long to contact us—and let us know they already knew we were coming—in an attempt to panic me into breaking off before we cross the limit?

  “Bill.”

  “Yes, Fleet Admiral?” Admiral Daniels looked up from his console.

  “I want the entire fleet scheduled for an alpha translation twenty seconds short of the limit.”

  “Excuse me, Sir?” Daniels looked as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. Which wasn’t too surprising, perhaps, given his superior’s decision to go with Approach Bravo.

  “Is that a problem for you, Admiral?” Filareta asked, looking at his operations officer coldly.

  “Uh, no, Sir. Of course not! I just … wasn’t expecting it.”

  Filareta continued to eye him coolly for a second, then relented.

  “I didn’t say we were actually going to translate,” he pointed out. “We can abort any time up to the last fifty seconds of the cycle, correct?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Daniels nodded, his eyes narrowed as understanding dawned. “You just want to have the extra three minutes in hand if you need them, is that it, Sir?”

  “Exactly.” This time, Filareta smiled. “It’ll give me at least another couple of minutes to think, anyway.”

  Daniels nodded again, more energetically, and began passing instructions while Filareta looked back to the communications officer.

  “All right, Reuben,” he said. “Put it on the main display.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Filareta turned towards the indicated display as the holo image of a very tall woman appeared above it. She wore a white beret, rather than the black beret that was standard for Manty flag officers, but he recognized her immediately from the file imagery. Even if he hadn’t, her skinsuit carried the four broad cuff bands and four golden stars of a fleet admiral, and the six-limbed creature on her shoulder would have been sufficient clue if it hadn’t. She also had remarkably cold brown eyes as she gazed out of the display at him.

  Alexander-Harrington’s recorded image stood motionless for a moment, until Sedgewick entered the “play” command.

  “Fleet Admiral Filareta,” she said then, her soprano voice as cold as her eyes. “In case you haven’t already figured it out, my name is Alexander-Harrington. I have the honor to command the forces assigned to the defense of this star system, and the fact that I know both your name and that you’re the commanding officer of Eleventh Fleet should be an indication that I know precisely why you’re here. In case you require further evidence of just how thoroughly your plans have been blown, however, I’ll add for the record that I also know you’re here to execute ‘Operation Raging Justice,’ which I find a rather … ironic way to describe the forcible conquest of the Star Empire of Manticore by the Solarian League Navy without the bothersome details of niggling little things like a formal declaration of war or any consultation with the League’s own Assembly. I suppose that’s just the way the League’s grown accustomed to doing things, and it’s worked fairly well for it so far.

  “But trust me, Admiral. This time it isn’t going to happen.”

  Her smile was a razor, and the treecat on her shoulder bared needle-sharp-looking fangs.

  “I suppose you may actually believe your intelligence services’ conclusion that the Yawata strike has crippled our defenses. I assure you, that isn’t the case. I suppose it’s also possible you believe that the fact that I have only forty superdreadnoughts in my wall indicates you have the force advantage. If you should be thinking anything of the sort, I suggest you remember what happened to Admiral Crandall, when Admiral Gold Peak had no superdreadnoughts in her order of battle.”

  She paused, as if to allow that to sink in, then continued in that same icy voice.

  “I hereby inform you, Admiral, that you are in violation of Manticoran territorial space. I further inform you that the Star Empire of Manticore considers your presence here, given the many previous instances of blatant and unprovoked Solarian aggression against the Star Empire, an act of war. Should you not immediately depart Manticoran territorial space, Her Majesty’s Navy and its allies will respond to that act of war with deadly force. Should you cross our hyper limit after this warning, I am instructed to inform you that Empress Elizabeth and her government will take it as incontrovertible proof that, despite its pious diplomatic protestations and posturing, the Solarian League in fact actively desires a state of war between it and Manticore. Should that be the case, we will certainly give you one.”

  She paused once more, briefly, her brown-flint eyes hard with confidence.

  “Whatever the people who sent you here may have thought, Admiral, you have no chance whatever of completing your mission. If you attempt to do so, especially after this warning, the consequences—including the thousands of your own personnel who will die and the general war between the Star Empire and the Solarian League which most assuredly will result—will rest upon your head and those of the corrupt bureaucrats who sent you here without a single shred of legal authority or moral justification.

  “Alexander-Harrington, clear.”

  She stopped speaking, and in the silence which enveloped SLNS Philip Oppenheimer’s flag bridge, it required all of Filareta’s willpower to keep his own face expressionless.

  She sure as hell doesn’t sound like she’s bluffing. And she obviously does know—or seems to, anyway—all about our orders. But, damn it, she’s got less than fifty wallers! And nobody could fight as many battles as this woman is supposed to’ve fought without learning to bluff convincingly!

  “Record for transmission,” he heard himself say.

  “Yes, Sir,” Sedgewick replied. “Live mike.”

  “Admiral Alexander-Harrington”—he made himself matc
h the chill of her own smile—“obviously you do know why I’m here. That being the case, I see no reason not to cut right to the heart of matters. There’s obviously a wide difference between your star nation’s interpretation of recent events and the Solarian League’s, and I have no intention of debating those interpretations. While I might not choose to use ‘conquest’ to describe my mission orders, I am here under orders to demand, in the name of the Solarian League, the stand down and surrender of all Manticoran military forces, the reopening of the wormholes you have illegally closed to all Solarian traffic as an act of economic warfare against the League in direct contravention of every principle of freedom of trade and passage, and the surrender of your civilian government. You may genuinely believe you have the capacity to defeat my forces. For that matter, you may actually have that capacity, although I beg to differ. Even if you do, however, you won’t accomplish it without taking significant losses of your own, and you might want to consider the fact that in addition to the other fifteen hundred superdreadnoughts actively in commission, the Navy has over eight thousand more in the Reserve. My presence here should indicate to you just how seriously the League takes this situation, and I assure you that, however many of those other ten thousand ships-of-the-wall it may require, the Solarian League will win in the end.”

  He paused to let her consider his words, then straightened his shoulders and looked straight into the pickup.

  “I intend to complete my mission, Admiral Alexander-Harrington, and I will. To use your own words, if you persist in resisting, the consequences—including the thousands of your personnel who will die—will rest upon your head and the Star Empire of Manticore’s. I demand that you stand down your fleet immediately. If you refuse, I will engage you.

  “Filareta, clear.”

  * * *

  “Well, that wasn’t exactly unexpected,” Honor observed fifty-odd seconds later. “Except for the bit about reopening the termini. I guess there was time for Old Chicago to tell him about that before he sailed, after all.”

  “It’s certainly arrogant enough for me to believe it came from a Solly,” Mercedes Brigham half muttered, her expression baleful.