Travis stared at her. Being passed over because he hadn’t done anything noteworthy was one thing. But this—“That doesn’t even make sense,” he protested. “I’ve seen him maybe three times since I enlisted. We don’t meet regularly—I don’t think he even particularly likes me.”
“I agree, it’s insane,” Metzger said. “But that’s one of the frustrating things about pride and politics. Once an idea gets anchored to either of those, it no longer has to make sense. It just is.”
Travis looked away. He’d joined the Navy looking for order and stability for his life. It had never occurred to him back then that stability was a two-edged sword. “I see,” he said.
For a moment there was silence. “So what are you going to do?” Metzger asked. “I don’t mean whether you’re going to your mother’s party or not. What are you going to do about the Navy?”
Travis let his eyes drift around the street and the houses. The civilian street; the civilian houses.
He could come back to this life, he knew. There would be a circle or two of hell to pay if he quit the Navy now, but he could do it. If nothing else, Gavin could probably help push his resignation through the system. He owed Travis that much.
But if he quit, he’d be turning his back on some good people. A lot of good people, really. Good, competent people, who’d found a way to do their jobs inside of an imperfect system.
People, moreover, who apparently recognized his contributions even if the system itself didn’t. Why else would Metzger have bothered to chase him down this way, if not to subtly let him know that she appreciated what he’d done? Captain Eigen did, too, and probably a few others. Maybe even Lieutenant Donnelly.
Maybe that was all he really needed. Maybe it was people like that who were the stability he’d always hungered for.
“I signed up for five T-years, Ma’am,” he said. “I’ll serve it out.”
“That’s good,” Metzger said. Out of the corner of his eye, Travis saw her reach into a pocket. “Because the Navy has plans for you.” She held out a data chip. “Here are your new orders.”
“My orders?” Travis frowned as he gingerly took the chip. “I thought I was on R and R.”
“You are,” Metzger said. “It’s just that when you report back for duty you won’t be returning to Guardian. You’ll be transferred to a shore command to start working on your college degree.”
Travis felt his eyes widen. “College?”
“That’s right, Gravitics Tech Long,” Metzger confirmed, a tight and slightly wicked smile creasing her face. “You’re going to college . . . because a college degree is pretty much a requirement for Navy officers.”
It took Travis a moment to find his voice. “But . . . you want to make me an officer?”
“Indeed we do,” Metzger said. “It’ll be college, then OCS, then a commission. The Powers That Be may have cut you out of a citation, but even they can’t be everywhere. Captain Eigen put in your application, I seconded it, and we even got a statement from Colonel Massingill before she and Gill headed off for Haven. You’ve been officially approved, so if you accept, there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it unless you flunk out. So don’t.”
“I won’t, Ma’am,” Travis said, his hand starting to shake a little. “I—thank you, Ma’am.”
“No thanks needed,” she assured him. “You earned it.” She pointed at the chip in his hand. “In the meantime, there’s a party to attend, and possibly a little bragging to be done. Have at it, and don’t be modest.”
Her smile faded. “Because you’re going places, Petty Officer Long. I’m not sure where those places are, but you’re going to go there. And I’m thinking that at the end, the Royal Manticoran Navy is going to be damn glad that you were along for the ride.”
Travis swallowed hard. “Thank you, Ma’am. I’ll try to live up to your expectations.”
“Don’t worry about my expectations,” she said. “Just live up to your own.”
She smiled dryly. “And stock up on your sleep. OCS isn’t a resort camp like Casey-Rosewood.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Travis said, smiling back. “I’ll remember that.”
Prime Minister Burgundy looked up from the report and shook his head. “Incredible,” he said. “Simply incredible.”
“Isn’t it?” Edward agreed, studying Burgundy’s face. There was a darkness there that seemed to go beyond even the threat that the Star Kingdom—indeed, the entire region—had just avoided. “It’s staggering to think of what might have happened had they succeeded. Even an old heavy cruiser is a formidable weapon; but a modern battlecruiser like Saintonge?” He gestured toward Burgundy’s tablet. “I daresay even Breakwater may have to eat this morning’s words.”
“You mean his characterization of the Navy as a group of squealing pigs in a trough?” Burgundy said sourly. “Oh, yes, the Exchequer was in rare form today.” He huffed out a sigh. “Only one flaw in your theory. Nothing in this report is going to change Breakwater’s mind . . . because he’s already seen it.”
“He’s what?”
“I don’t know who leaked it to him,” Burgundy said sourly. “But I know for a fact that he obtained a copy over the weekend. He knows exactly what happened at Secour.”
“And he still insists that the Star Kingdom is overmilitarized?” Edward demanded. “That’s insane.”
Burgundy shrugged uncomfortably. “You have to look at it from his point of view. We have three battlecruisers in service. Even if Guzarwan had succeeded, he’d still only have had one. The man was incredibly bold, but he wasn’t incredibly stupid.”
“I’m sure the fact that the Star Kingdom would have been off his list would have been of great comfort to Casca, Zuckerman, or Ramon,” Edward countered. “Or Ueshiba. Remember, Guzarwan was using their credentials. That might mean he’d already checked them out and seen something there he liked. And not just their fine mushroom dishes.”
“Perhaps,” Burgundy said. “Another possibility is that he had Ueshiban credentials because they’re the ones who hired him.”
“You’re not serious,” Edward said, frowning. “Wouldn’t that be rather—I don’t know. Obvious?”
“Obvious, or calculatedly audacious,” Burgundy said. “They might have given him credentials on the assumption that everyone would dismiss them for exactly that reason.” He made a face. “I’m almost sorry Captain Eigen had to kill him. It sounds like the prisoners the Marines collected had no idea who actually hired them.”
“Haven’s got good investigators,” Edward said. “If the prisoners know anything, they’ll get it out of them.”
At the third point of their triangle, King Michael cleared his throat. “I think, gentlemen, you’re both missing the point,” he said. “As is our Lord Exchequer. Yes, Guzarwan didn’t get the warships he went to Secour to steal. But who’s to say those are the only ones he’s gone after? Or that his other efforts haven’t succeeded?”
A chill ran up Edward’s back. His father was right. Somehow, he’d assumed this had been a one-off job, based on a once-in-a-lifetime set of interlocking opportunities. “Wouldn’t we have heard if something like that had happened?”
“Would we?” the King asked. “If Guzarwan had succeeded at Secour, I hardly think Haven would have sent out a news release. I doubt any other victims would behave any differently.”
“Ships disappear all the time,” Burgundy muttered. “Not as often now as they used to, but they still occasionally just vanish into hyperspace.”
“And it’s much easier to blame forces of nature than admit you had a warship stolen,” the King added.
“So what you’re saying is that someone out there could already have a battle fleet?” Edward asked. “And that we have no idea who?”
“It’s not quite that bad,” the King soothed. “A destroyer or cruiser takes a certain level of infrastructure and money just to keep going, and a battlecruiser is even worse. If Guzarwan was representing a rogue system, it has to be one t
hat has both spare cash and the expertise to train people to operate military-class equipment.”
“So you don’t think they were part of the pirate gang Casca thinks they’ve found?” Edward asked.
“The resources we’re talking about should be well beyond a group of pirates,” the King said. “Certainly any gang trying to survive on the sparse traffic around here. No, if it’s an independent group, then I think we’re looking at something more like the Free Brotherhood.”
Edward winced. “What a lovely thought.”
“It is, isn’t it?” the King agreed. “Still, even a new Brotherhood will probably have a planetary base somewhere, and that base will still need that threshold of money and expertise. Those are the systems where we’ll start our investigation.”
“Our investigation?” Edward asked, frowning. “I thought we agreed that Haven would take point on this one.”
“Haven agreed that Haven would take point,” the King corrected. “That doesn’t mean we can’t poke around a little on our own. Admiral Locatelli’s been pressing the Cabinet for years to authorize more hyperspace experience for his ships and crews. This might be a good time to give it to him.”
“If you can get it past Breakwater,” Edward growled.
“I know,” the King agreed heavily. “But we have to try.”
“We have to try?” Edward repeated, a sudden stirring of anger and frustration rippling through him. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, this has moved beyond politics. There’s someone out there—someone maybe very close to Manticore—who’s collecting or at least trying to collect a full set of capital warships.”
“You’re right, of course,” the King agreed, his voice suddenly sounding old. “This has indeed moved beyond politics. The problem is, I haven’t.” He looked over at Burgundy. “And I don’t think I ever can.”
Edward stared at his father, his flash of anger gone. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m tired, Edward,” Michael said quietly. “I’ve been at this for a long time. Longer than I expected. Much longer than I ever wanted.” He waved a hand. “You create alliances in this job, some permanent, most temporary. Every one of those alliances and compromises creates a connection, some thickness of political thread that now runs between the two of you.” He took a deep breath, exhaled it softly. “At some point, you find that all those threads have enmeshed you in a web from which there’s no escape or even freedom of movement.”
“The bottom line is that he can’t push Parliament for the kind of reform and funding the Navy needs,” Burgundy said softly. “It would trigger a massive governmental crisis, and if Breakwater played his cards right it could very well end in a complete gutting of the Navy.”
“I have too many threads encircling me, Edward,” Michael said. “I can’t revive the Navy.” He smiled faintly. “That task will be up to you.”
Edward’s breath caught in his throat. “Me?”
“Oh, not yet, of course,” Michael hastened to assure him. “Not until you’re king. But that day isn’t far off. And when it arrives, in the pomp and bustle and uncertainty as everyone sizes up the new monarch, that will be the time for you two to strike.”
Edward looked at Burgundy. “Us two?”
“Us two,” Burgundy confirmed. He straightened up in his chair.
And suddenly, the weight of years and diffidence that Edward had assumed were a permanent part of his face seemed to crack like thick piecrust and fall away. The eyes gazing at him across the room were the eyes of the young Davis Harper, Duke Burgundy, eyes that blazed with hope and righteous fire and the future of the Star Kingdom. “Your father isn’t a fighter, Edward,” he said. His voice was still the older Burgundy’s voice, but it too had a hint of old fire behind it. “Not in the way you want, or in the way the Navy needs. And up until now, there seemed no harm in just letting history drift along while we waited for the time to be right.
“But drifting is no longer an option. With this document, Parliament is going to get a wake-up call.”
“And we’re going to persuade them how?” Edward asked cautiously.
“Not by precipitating a crisis, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Michael assured him. “It’ll start slowly and carefully, with a gentle levering of one Lord at a time. It’ll probably take a few years, but by the time you ascend the throne, the majority you need to revive the RMN will be there waiting for you.”
“I see,” Edward said, not really sure he did. “And how does this levering occur?”
“I told you I was trapped in this mass of political threads,” the King said. “But those threads go both ways. There are favors that can be called in, desires that can be met, honors that can sway both hearts and votes.”
“And if more is needed,” Burgundy added darkly, “be assured that I’ve been in this business long enough to know where all the most interesting bodies are buried. The right word, the brandishing of a figurative shovel, and we’ll have what we need.”
Edward winced. That same figurative shovel would also undoubtedly make them a whole new set of enemies. He and Burgundy would have to think long and hard before they went that route.
“But that’s for your future,” Michael said. “Right now, you get to go back to your family, and from there back to your ship.”
“Right,” Edward said dryly. “Like I’m going to be able to relax now.”
“You will,” his father said. “Because on at least one issue, our Lord Exchequer is perfectly correct: we will never be anyone’s primary target. Not with three battlecruisers on station and another five ready to reactivate.”
“Wars, like all political conflicts, are fought for a reason,” Burgundy added. “And while I love the Star Kingdom I also know that there’s nothing on Manticore, Sphinx, or Gryphon that’s worth that much trouble. To anyone.”
The best thing about working for Axelrod of Terra, Karen Wamocha had always maintained, was the pay. A star-spanning megacorporation like Axelrod could afford to hire the best, and could more than afford to write salaries commensurate with that quality.
The worst thing about working for them was the overall working environment. Specifically, the scenery.
There wasn’t much you could do, after all, with a windowless office ten stories below Beowulf street level.
There was a projection wall, of course, that could dial in any view Wamocha wanted. But it was only visual, without the sounds and aromas that made the real world come alive to her, and she’d gotten bored with the toy after her first month. Now, she usually just set it to a nice dark blue. There was the row of potted plants across the front of her desk, and the giant fern in the corner, but aside from providing a little extra oxygen, there wasn’t much point in them anymore, either.
She was staring at the plants, toying with the idea of simply saying screw it and escaping to the Tapestry Mountains for a few days of skiing, when there was a tap at her door.
She looked up to see Luther Luangpraseut standing in the opening, an oddly intense look on his face. “Chief, can I see you a moment?” he asked.
“Sure, Luther,” Wamocha said, gesturing him in. Proper business etiquette recommended that managers address their subordinates by their job title or a deferential form of their last name. But analyst was such a vapid term, and having mangled Luther’s name three times in his first day on the job, Wamocha had given up on that approach, as well. “What is it?”
“Maybe nothing.” Luther stepped inside, pointedly closing the door behind him. “Maybe something big. I don’t know if you remember, but one of the jobs I was hired for was to go through all the old astrogation data, consolidate it, and recode it into the new storage format.”
“Yes, I remember,” Wamocha said. She did, too, though she’d have been hard-pressed to pull up Luther’s job description without that hint. “And?”
“I’ve been working on the Manticore system,” he said, stepping around behind her desk and inserting a chip into her computer. “I may be
crazy, but I think there may be something there.”
Wamocha gazed at the data sheet that came up, the mountains, skiing, and even the inherent dreariness of windowless rooms abruptly forgotten. The data wasn’t even close to being conclusive. But all the right hints were indeed there.
And if those hints weren’t just data-smoothing constructs . . .
“The thing is, I’m wondering how to proceed,” Luther continued. “I know our division has a contract with the League to hunt down wormhole junctions. But Manticore isn’t in the League. So does that mean we don’t need to tell them?”
Wamocha smiled tightly. There were some situations in which a manager had to make decisions on the fly, using his or her best judgment. But on this one, at least, company instructions were extremely specific. “That’s exactly correct,” she confirmed. “The contract explicitly states that the League only gets information about its own local wormholes.” It wasn’t all that explicit, she knew, having made a point of slogging through the whole damn thing a couple of years ago. But the concept was implicit enough in the fine print to stand up if there was ever a court challenge. “Where’s your raw data?”
“Mine? It’s right there,” he said, pointing to the chip. “But really, all the background information is out there for the taking. Anyone who knows what to look for could dig it out with a little work.”
Wamocha nodded. Fortunately, though, no one would. Manticore had been sitting out in the middle of nowhere for over a hundred years, with ships coming and going throughout that time. No one would ever find a wormhole in that system for the simple reason that no one would ever go looking for one. Only Axelrod, with its vast resources and huge bottom line, could afford the luxury of spending time and money on this kind of crapshoot.
Which was why, when one of those gambles paid off, Axelrod deserved the lion’s share of the profit. Axelrod, and the Axelrod employees responsible.
And if there was indeed a Junction in the Manticore system, damn right there would be profit. There would be profit and to spare.