Golbatsi might not be able to talk to his birds in the final seconds of their lives, but even without that, their accuracy at that enormous distance was better than the SLN could have managed at twenty percent of that range.
One thousand three hundred and five X-ray lasers, each almost twice as powerful as the SLN’s Trebuchet capital missile could generate, lashed out at a single battlecruiser. Despite the Mark 23 Es, over a third of those lasers wasted themselves on the roof or floor of Lorraine’s impeller wedge.
The rest of them didn’t.
Almost eight hundred lasers designed to disembowel not just superdreadnoughts, but Manticoran superdreadnoughts, blasted into a mere battlecruiser. Lorraine massed barely ten percent of an Invictus, and there was literally no comparison between the two ships’ armor, their cofferdamming, their framing and their sheer depth of hull. The thickness of a superdreadnought’s external armor was measured in meters, and its core hull was at least five times as well protected as a battlecruiser’s against any damage that actually penetrated that incredible outer shell. Lasers capable of gouging their way through an Invictus’ armored sides blasted entirely through Lorraine’s hull and then out again—not just through her hull and armor, but through both sets of sidewalls, as well.
One of them struck her almost head on. It ripped a perpendicular path down two thirds of her hull’s total length, and her after fusion plant lost containment, but it didn’t really matter. All the fireball accomplished was to vaporize a third or so of the broken fragments into which she—and her entire crew—had already been shattered.
* * *
Winslet Tamaguchi stared at the plot in horror. The visual display showed the spreading cloud of wreckage which had once been SLNS Lorraine, and he wondered—numbly—why Tremaine had targeted only a single ship. That massive degree of overkill made it abundantly clear that his single salvo could have completely destroyed BatCruRon 720. And the shipkillers he’d expended eliminating Tamaguchi’s own attack missiles proved he could have fired even more of them at the Solarian ships. So why…?
On the plot, the last survivor of his final wave of pod-launched Cataphracts died 1.3 million kilometers short of Sierra One.
And then there were none, he thought numbly. And if nineteen hundred missiles with Trebuchet laserheads didn’t even leave a scuff mark, what in hell do I expect my internal tubes to accomplish?
“Sir.” Phanindra Broadmoor’s voice was shaken, his face ashen. “Sir, I have a com request. It’s apparently originating from a platform at about two hundred thousand kilometers.”
Tamaguchi inhaled deeply.
“Put it through,” he told his com officer.
“Yes, Sir.”
Tamaguchi’s display blinked from tactical to com mode, and the Manticoran commander looked out of it at him once more.
“I don’t like killing people, Admiral Tamaguchi.” Tremaine’s voice was flat, his expression grim. “That’s why I targeted only one of your ships. Be advised, however, that I have sufficient missiles to do that again several times, although I think you must realize I wouldn’t have to do it ‘several times’ to destroy your entire force.
“I don’t want to do that, so I’m giving you an opportunity to save your people’s lives. You have ten minutes to strike your wedges and surrender. At the end of that time, I will open fire once more. If I do, I doubt there will be many survivors.
“The decision is yours, Admiral.”
Chapter Seventy-Three
Tomasz Szponder looked up as the door to his Wydawnictwo Zielone Wzgórza office opened. He could have relocated to far more prestigious quarters—quarters more “appropriate” to the man who was the effective head of state for an entire star system—after his coup, or counter-coup, or whatever the hell it had been. In fact, Szymon Ziomkowski had almost begged him to use the old pre-Agitacja prime minister’s residence, but he’d refused all suggestions that he move into it. He’d stayed in the townhouse in which he’d always lived, and he’d worked out of the office from which he’d always worked.
And there was a reason he’d come back to that office from the com center where he’d thrown his last, futile defiance at Hieronim Mazur.
As the hours dragged by with the Solarian commander not deigning to contact anyone on the planet, the reality—the final awareness—of what was going to happen had driven in on him. They weren’t even going to try to reach any sort of peaceful resolution, he’d realized, and this office was where the Krucjata Wolności Myśli had been born. When the time came, when the intervention battalions closed in, this was where it—and its creator—would die.
But if he’d managed not to move to another address, he hadn’t been able to avoid at least some concessions to the post-coup realities. Tomek Nowak and Jarosław Kotarski had been just as insistent as Ziomkowski when it came to beefing up his personal security. After all, the vast majority of the oligarchowie were still right here on Włocławek, and they still had plenty of money. Some of them were certain to invest some of that money in the assassination of the man who proposed to bring down their privileged kingdom. Not just for the vengeance of it, either—although that would’ve been more than sufficient for most of them. No, they would have seen his death as a serious blow to his supporters.
Justyna Pokriefke was sitting in one of her own prison cells, and “Mała Justyna’s” Biuro Bezpieczeństwa i Prawdy had been summarily disbanded. Her authority had been handed over to Teofil Strenk, whose regular police had spent an enjoyable several days rounding up and disarming every one of the her black jackets. It hadn’t been entirely bloodless, either, although the casualties had been distinctly one-sided. He couldn’t quite shake the conviction that some of Strenk’s policemen hadn’t tried very hard to take the czarne kurtki alive, either. He hadn’t much cared for that, but, realistically, he’d known at least some of it was inevitable.
The one branch of the BBP which hadn’t been disbanded—and which the police fully respected—was the Departament Ochrony Przewodniczącego, and Ziomkowski had insisted that the organization responsible for his own security should take over Szponder’s protection, as well.
Rather to Szponder’s surprise, Grzegorz Zieliński had volunteered to head the team assigned to him. In fact, he’d insisted upon taking the assignment. After the way the DOP agent had been duped at the Dzień Przewodniczącego celebration, he’d anticipated that Zieliński would be none too fond of one Tomasz Szponder. Apparently he’d been wrong.
Now Zieliński and Kotarski came bursting through his office door, and he frowned as their expressions registered. Zieliński looked tense, although the aura of anxiety which had grown steadily deeper as he realized something had gone seriously wrong with Szponder’s original plans was far less in evidence. But Kotarski—Kotarski looked almost…jubilant.
“Something’s happening, Tomasz!” the older man said even before he was completely through the door.
“What?” Szponder knew he sounded less than excited, even despondent despite his friend’s expression, but it was the best he could do.
“We don’t know,” Kotarski replied. “But we just got confirmation from Astro Control’s ground stations that Mazur’s yacht and at least four other hyper-capable ships have left Piłsudski.”
“To rendezvous with the Sollies, no doubt,” Szponder said heavily.
“No.” Kotarski shook his head sharply. “They wouldn’t need hyper-capable ships for that, Tomasz. Besides, it looks like they’re headed for the hyper limit as fast as they can go!”
“What?” There was more life in the one-word question this time, but not a lot, and Szponder frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense! They’ve won. We’re only kicking and scratching on the way to the gallows.”
“Maybe not, Sir,” Zieliński said. “If things were going according to plan for the łowcy trufli, the Sollies would already be in orbit. And if that was the case, then why would Mazur—or anybody else, for that matter—be headed out of the system?” The security ag
ent shook his head sharply. “No, something’s gone wrong for them. It’s the only explanation.”
Kotarski nodded sharply in agreement, and Szponder looked back and forth between the two of them.
“I know we all want to believe the best, or at least not accept the worst,” his voice was almost gentle, “but what could have ‘gone wrong’ for them? The Sollies are here, they just haven’t bothered to land any troops yet. I should never have trusted the damned Manties.”
“Don’t you dare say that!” Zieliński snapped, his expression suddenly so angry Szponder blinked in surprise. “You’re the only man in this entire star system who remembered what the Ruch Odnowy Narodowej was supposed to be about—the one who did something about it! Nobody can ever take that away from you, or from us, so don’t you try to do that.”
“I’m sorry, Grzegorz,” Szponder said after a moment, standing and reaching out to lay one hand on the bodyguard’s forearm. “I don’t want to take anything away from anyone, but to use Tomek’s colorful phrase, I’m afraid we’re all screwed. I just…I don’t want you clutching at straws, because if you do, it’ll hurt even more when it turns out that straws were all they were.”
“No,” Kotarski disagreed quickly. “No, Grzegorz’s right. If something hadn’t gone wrong, they’d at least be in orbit trying to scare us into caving in.” He grimaced in obvious frustration. “Damn! I wish we had control of at least some of the deep-space infrastructure! Even the near-planet sensor net might be able to tell us something about what’s going on up there if Mazur and his zdradzieckie szumowiny hadn’t locked us out of it!”
“I’m sure we’ll find out entirely too soon,” Szponder said grimly. “In fact, it’s probably just a matter of—”
His door didn’t “open” this time; it burst wide, slamming back against the wall so hard the framed old-fashioned landscape painting of the “green hills” from which Wydawnictwo Zielone Wzgórza officially took its name, fell with a crash, and he whipped around to face it as Tomek Nowak erupted into his office.
“What the—?!” he started, but Nowak cut him off.
“Here, Szefie!” He thrust a hand in Szponder’s direction, waving a handheld com while an enormous smile lit up his face. “It’s for you! Trust me, you’ll want to take this one!”
Szponder regarded him with the wariness with which one ought to regard an obvious lunatic, but he reached out and accepted the com gingerly. He stood holding it, and Nowak waved both hands wildly, urging him to look down at it.
He obeyed the gesture and frowned as a man he’d never seen before—a youngish man, with sandy hair and blue eyes—looked out of the tiny display.
“Yes?” he said cautiously.
“Mr. Szponder?” the stranger replied, and his stomach tightened as he heard the off-worlder accent.
“Yes,” he repeated, his voice harsher.
“I understand you’re the man I’m supposed to be talking to,” the off-worlder said. “I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“What sort of ‘misunderstanding’?” Szponder asked, wondering if he was the only person in the entire Włocławek System who hadn’t gone mad in the last hour or so.
“Well, I’m afraid Admiral Tamaguchi’s plans have hit a tiny setback. I apologize for not contacting you sooner. Unfortunately, I hadn’t realized there was anyone in-system to contact. That’s where the misunderstanding comes in.”
He paused, and Szponder frowned. None of this made any sense!
“The thing is, Mr. Szponder,” the stranger told him, “you haven’t actually been talking to the Star Empire of Manticore at all.” Szponder’s confusion was now complete, but the young man in the uniform—the black-and-gold uniform, he noted now—went on. “I suppose what I actually should’ve said is that you haven’t actually talked to the Star Empire yet, Sir. As it happens, however, my name’s Tremaine—Captain Prescott Tremaine—and I believe you and I have quite a lot to talk about going forward.”
* * *
The men and women around the briefing room table rose as Lester Tourville stepped through the hatch, followed by Captain Molly Delaney, his chief of staff, and Berjouhi Lafontaine. He crossed to the head of the table and took the chair awaiting him, then looked around the compartment.
“Be seated, ladies and gentlemen,” he said crisply.
They obeyed him—except Lieutenant Lafontaine, who parked herself at his shoulder, hands clasped behind her in the position of parade rest. From his slight smile and tiny, almost resigned headshake he knew exactly where she was. But then his smile faded and he leaned forward, planting his forearms on the tabletop.
“I’m sure all of you are aware of the arrival this morning of Admiral Gold Peak’s dispatch boat from Meyers,” he said, and the corner of his mustache quivered in something that was more grimace than smile. “I sometimes think that when flag officers go to hell, they’ll have to wait in purgatory for the dispatch boat with their movement orders to catch up with them.”
A chuckle ran around the table, and he sat back in his chair and extracted a cigar from his breast pocket. His eyes gleamed as he slowly and ceremoniously unwrapped it, and Lurks in Branches took one look, hopped off his shoulder, and crossed to the bulkhead-mounted treecat perch located as far away from his chair as was physically possible. The air return directly above Tourville began to hum a little more loudly, and the fragrant smoke wisped almost straight up when he lit it.
Almost.
“Now,” he continued, once he had it drawing properly, “about Admiral Gold Peak’s dispatches.”
His expression sobered.
“I have to say I’m impressed. In fact, I’m looking forward to meeting the Countess even more eagerly now, because it would appear everything I’ve ever heard about her is accurate. At the time I left Manticore, no one realized she was contemplating a direct attack on the Madras Sector. As a result, no one could have realized how well that attack was going to go. According to her dispatches, however, she’s taken or destroyed every Solarian naval unit in the sector and installed a new government—or, rather, strengthened an existing system government that has actual popular support—in Meyers itself which she believes has the potential to become a genuine, independent sector-wide government. Whether or not she’s right about that, the reinforcements Admiral Culbertson forwarded to her”—he nodded courteously in Culbertson’s direction—“materially increased her ability to accomplish all of that.”
He paused to blow a smoke ring which rapidly ascended to the air intake.
“In the meantime,” he continued, “she’s also been informed of the much greater troop strength the Quadrant Guard is forwarding to Montana. She doesn’t have the most recent hard numbers we’ve received, but she’s aware the troops are on their way and should be arriving here shortly.
“And with that information in hand,” he drew deeply on his cigar, blew another smoke ring, and regarded them all levelly, “she’s decided to move directly on Mesa.”
For just a moment, it didn’t seem to register. Then, as one, the assembled squadron and division commanders straightened in their chairs.
“She’s taken that decision on her own authority,” Tourville continued. “I realize she’s your Empress’ first cousin, but even given that proximity to the Throne, I’m deeply impressed by her willingness to make that decision on her own. And, for the official record, I also support it one hundred percent. It’s obvious there’s an infection out here—and probably in a lot of other places in the galaxy coming from here—and I think it’s time we lanced its source once and for all. Very, very…thoroughly.”
A soft sound of agreement ran around the conference table, and he nodded as he heard it.
“Her dispatches include our movement orders,” he told them. “We’re to wait for the Quadrant Guard to arrive. As soon as it does, we will depart Montana, leaving light forces here to safeguard the system, and move with every other unit to SCY-146-H.” He smiled tightly. “I had to look it up in the
catalog. It’s a red dwarf, with no planets, a perfect place for a rendezvous point. It’s also a perfect spot for exercises while the units of an invasion fleet shake down together…and less than six light-years from the Mesa System.
“She’ll be waiting when we arrive.”
OCTOBER 1922 POST DIASPORA
“And good evening to you, Admiral Tourville. We’ve been waiting for you.”
—Admiral Michelle Henke,
Countess Gold Peak,
CO, Tenth Fleet,
Royal Manticoran Navy
Chapter Seventy-Four
Jules Charteris touched the authorization code on his uni-link to pay the air taxi, then watched it lift away from the Saracen Tower traffic platform. He’d considered holding it, but Lisa’s bosses at Kepagane & Bellini had laid on luxury limos for all of their personnel who’d be attending today’s conference as a sort of apology for keeping them sequestered on McClintock Island for so long.
And they damned well should, too, he thought more than a little grumpily as he headed for the grav shaft. It’s ridiculous! Over two months “incommunicado” is just outrageous. I know they pay well, and I know that whatever she does for them’s at least as important to the Alignment as anything I do, but she does have a life…and so do I!
At least they’d relaxed the total ban on outside contact that was usually part of the full-immersion study groups they convened once a year or so, usually before one of the big conferences like today’s. But even that had been tightly limited. He’d been able to talk to her only once a day, although they’d let them have up to thirty minutes at a time on the com when he did, and he’d been a little worried after some of those conversations.