And it can’t possibly be carried aboard any current design of capital ship, he thought. Not in sufficient numbers, at any rate; not even my boys and girls are going to squeeze it down into something that’ll change that minor problem! Which means we’re going to have to completely rethink hull forms, weapons tonnages, launch methods and mechanisms, and ammunition stowage, just for a start. I’m thinking those new lightweight LAC launchers might be part of the answer, at least in the short term. Build ourselves an offensive version of the system defense missile pods and use it as a strap on, or tractor it astern or something, at least for an interim approach. We’ll have to come up with something better in the long run though. Defining a new, workable operational doctrine’s going to be a big enough pain in the ass all by itself, but I’m willing to bet we’re going to have to redesign the ship-of-the-wall from the keel out, too, and then we’re going to have to find the wherewithal to build the damned things.And Roger was right; no one at BuWeaps or BuShips had a clue what was about to be thrown at them. If, on the other hand, there was a single man in the RMN who did have a clue . . .
“What exactly do you have in mind?” he asked.
“I’ve already talked to Castle Rock and Styler,” Roger replied. “Sometime early next year, they’re going to create a new command—we’re calling it the Weapons Development Board—and you’re going to be in charge of it. It’ll be based in Manticore Beta, aboard Weyland, so it’ll still be as much out-of-sight, out-of-mind as we can keep it, and if we can convince the newsies to think it’s more makework for a beloved but not that bright brother-in-law, so much the better. You will be being bounced directly to flag rank—vice admiral of the red—when you take over as CO, I’m afraid. In fact, I’ve already signed your promotion, but we’ve classified it under the Official Secrets Act, at least for now. As far as anyone outside a certain very select circle is concerned, you’ll still be a mere captain holding an acting commodore’s slot as a way to let Angelique and me funnel a few extra perks and a better pension in your direction.”
“I suppose I should be accustomed to being a drone by now,” Jonas observed with a dry smile, and Roger chuckled.
“We’ve all worked hard enough to convince the galaxy at large that you are one, at any rate!”
“And the duties of this new entity would be—?”
“I’m not sure whether it’s ultimately going to have to find a home under the BuShips or the BuWeaps umbrella, but for right now, it’s not going to belong to either. You’ll still be working out of Admiral Rodriguez’s office, officially, but your real job is going to be to start creating the liaison between BuShips and BuWeaps we’re going to need to move the new systems from pure research into development and then into volume production as early as possible. You’ll be doing as much of the work as you can from Weyland, if only because our security arrangements there have been worked out in so much depth, but eventually you’re going to have to have ‘branch offices’ aboard Vulcan and Hephaestus, as well. And in addition to the purely hardware side of things, you’re also going to be responsible for developing tactics and operational doctrine to use the new systems.”
“I see.”
Jonas considered for a moment, then shrugged.
“I won’t pretend I’m happy about the thought of giving up Gram. On the other hand, I see your logic, and I believe that somewhere around here it says that since you’re the King, we all get to do things your way, anyway.” He smiled briefly. “How much freedom am I going to have to request personnel?”
“Probably not as much as you’d like, at least initially.” Roger made a face. “Obviously we’re going to have to bring in additional manpower, which’ll mean expanding the number of people who have at least some idea of what Gram’s been working on all this time. We need to be careful about how we do that, though. And once anybody disappears into this Weapons Development Board, he won’t be being released to the general population again anytime soon. We may have to make some exceptions here and there, and we’re going to want people with the shooter’s perspective in this up to their elbows, of course, but the security requirements are going to remain paramount for the foreseeable future, as well. We’ll have to go public with it eventually, at least within the Service, if it’s going to do its job, but I don’t want to do that one instant before we have to. Call me paranoid, but I really don’t want this leaking to the Peeps until we’ve got the hammer we need to hit them so hard they don’t get up again. Why? Is there someone in particular you think you’d like?”
“I was thinking about young Alexander, as a matter of fact,” Jonas admitted. “I understand he’s just about finished with his current tour at BuPlan. The thought of getting him into harness with Sonja would probably make Sisyphus cringe, but this sounds like something we could really, really use his brain on, Roger. And you know a lot of senior officers’re going to have major reservations about such radically new hardware. They know what already works, and they’re going to fight like hell against risking the loss of proven weapon systems in favor of a batch of new, half-baked ideas which may end up not working and get us all killed, as a result. But Alexander’s broadly enough respected that if we can get him signed on, it’ll help enormously with the fleet’s acceptance in general.”
“Um.”
Roger frowned, sipping more whiskey and looking into space while he considered. He sat that way for several moments, then blinked and refocused on Jonas.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, “but my initial thought is that we need him elsewhere even worse.” He raised his free hand, forestalling any protest Jonas might have made. “God knows you’re right about how good he is and how respected he is, and he’s hit the ground running ever since he went back on active duty.”
The King’s expression went briefly bleak, recalling the horrendous air car accident which had crippled Lady Emily Alexander . . . and very nearly destroyed Hamish Alexander’s naval career as he went on to half-pay in his desperately determined battle to somehow reverse the verdict of his beloved wife’s catastrophic damage. He’d failed. Emily Alexander—actress, equestrienne, tennis player, and one of the Star Kingdom’s most beloved public figures—would never leave her life-support chair again. The fact that she’d confronted that truth, accepted the physical wasteland her future had become, without even a trace of surrender—that she’d already become one of Manticore’s premier HD producers, now that she could no longer take the stage herself—had only made her even more beloved, and she’d had the strength to encourage her husband’s return to active duty, as well.
“The problem is, we do need him where he is, at the moment, and we need to get him rotated back through active fleet command ASAP, as well,” Roger continued. “Your job is going to be to produce the next generation of weapons and the ships and doctrine we need to make them work. In the meantime, though, we have to have the very best commanders and doctrine we can get with existing weapons systems, and that describes Hamish perfectly. Eventually, we’ll have to bring him on board, but for now, I think he’ll be even more valuable to us in more . . . conventional roles. And let’s face it, Jonas. You and I are busy planning for a future war in which Gram’s weapons could prove decisive, but we can’t be remotely certain the Peeps will hold off that long. One of the reasons I’m going to be talking to Hector Ramirez is my hope that a united front with San Martin will cause the Peeps to back off, buy us the time to get the Weapons Development Board fully up and running and actually bring the new systems to a deployable level. If it doesn’t, though—if the Peeps don’t blink, and do go ahead and pull the trigger—we’ll have to fight with the ships and weapons we already have, and we’ll need someone who can use those weapons as effectively as humanly possible. Again, that describes Hamish perfectly. So the bottom line is that I simply can’t spare him at this time.”
“But you think I can probably have him at some point in the future?” Jonas pressed.
“Assuming we’re not actively at war with the Peop
le’s Republic, yes,” Roger said dryly.
“Good. I’ll hold you to that,” Jonas warned.
“Thanks for the warning.”
Roger smiled, then glanced at his chrono and made another face. This one was considerably more cheerful than the last one, Jonas noticed.
“Well,” the King stood, setting his empty whiskey glass on an end table, “I hate to drink and run, but Angel’s waiting for me.”
“Really?” Jonas stood as well. “Where are the two of you off to? I thought we were having supper together tonight?”
“Oh, we are,” Roger reassured him. “But not here. In fact, we’re—”
He broke off as the study door opened and Elizabeth stepped through it. The King’s eyebrows rose, and his daughter laughed.
“I bribed Captain Trevor to let me burst in on you without notice, Dad,” she said, then stepped past her father to hug Jonas tightly. “They told me you were here, Uncle Jonas, and I wanted to be sure I got to see you before you disappeared back off to the Admiralty again. Especially since I won’t be seeing you at supper tonight.”
“You won’t?” Jonas returned her embrace, then stood back, smiling at her. “And what have I done to offend you, Your Highness?”
She laughed again, the treecat on her shoulder tilting his head to regard Jonas with matching amusement.
“You haven’t done a thing,” she assured him. “Except for being guilty of bad timing, anyway. Mom and Dad are off to the Indigo Salt Flats for a little overdue recreation before heading off to Trevor’s Star.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Jonas said, looking across at Roger, and the King shrugged.
“We’ve kept it quiet. Angel and I are both worn out getting ready for this trip—especially her, I’m afraid.” He shook his head, his brown eyes softening with the memory of all Angelique had put up with since wedding him. “No newsies, no press, no guests—just the two of us. Well, and you, for supper. Possibly Michael, too . . . assuming he’s on speaking terms with me.”
“Bad?” Jonas asked.
“No worse than usual.” Roger rolled his eyes. “God, I love that boy, but there are times . . .”
“He’ll get over it, Dad,” Elizabeth assured him.
“And you won’t be joining us because—?” Jonas inquired, and Roger laughed.
“Jonas, you’d better get used to it,” the King said when his brother-in-law glanced back at him. “Ever since she and young Zyrr announced their engagement, she’s taken every opportunity she can find to drag him off to some glitzy nightspot somewhere. Yes, and pretended she was just studying for exams with him.” Roger shook his head, his expression mournful. “She thinks she’s actually fooling her soft-headed old dad, too. It’s sad, when you think about it.”
“You need to work on making your lower lip quiver properly, Dad,” his undutiful daughter said critically. “And, no, I don’t think I’m fooling you and Mom a bit, given the way Security keeps an eye on all of us. Not to mention the fact that I know you know perfectly well that Justin really is helping me study for finals. Or the fact that I happen to know you get along with him just fine yourself.”
“Respect,” Roger sighed. “It says somewhere in the Constitution, that the King is supposed to be spoken to with respect. I know it does.”
“By everyone except his family, Dad,” Elizabeth said, rising slightly on her toes to kiss his cheek and smiling at him. “But Justin really is waiting for me, and I’ve got to run, that’s the real reason I interrupted you and Uncle Jonas. I already talked to Mom, and I wouldn’t keep her waiting, if I were you.” She shook her head, brown eyes gleaming. “She’s really looking forward to this.”
“I know—I know!” Roger said repentantly. “She puts up with a lot.”
“Oh, it’s not all bad, Roger,” Jonas told him.
“No, it isn’t,” Elizabeth agreed. “And let me know how that new grav ski works!”
Roger smiled in delight, feeling the wind whip across his tightly curled hair as he rode the grav ski high above the blue sands which gave the Indigo Salt Flats their name. It really had been too long since he and Angel had taken the time to be just the two of them, treasuring one another properly, and the glorious afternoon offered them at least another three or four hours of daylight before they’d have to call it quits. He rather regretted the fact that the new ski Elizabeth had given him for his birthday had been downchecked by Planetary Security. The problem was minor enough he might have used it anyway, but as Major Dover had pointed out, there was no point taking chances with a brand new, possibly temperamental ski. They could always have it serviced for a later excursion, and the backup ski he kept here at the Flats was an old and trusted friend.
He came out of a perfect double spiral flip and looked over to see Angelique’s reaction. She looked back at him, raising her hand in salute while her dark hair whipped behind her in the wind of her passage, then banked gracefully and swooped upward, executing exactly the same maneuver. She was a little slower, but her control was better, and Roger chuckled. If there’d been any judges watching them, they’d have given the round to her on points.
“Ready for a quad, Angel?” he asked over the com.
“Why not?” She laughed. “I can’t remember when conditions’ve been more perfect.”
“You go first.”
“So you can study my technique?” She laughed again. “As Your Majesty commands.”
Her quadruple spiral flip was perfect, of course. It always was, and Roger hand-signaled his appreciation, then checked his readouts. If he was going to win this round, he needed every advantage he could get from the light wind and the thermal updrafts. He waited, until conditions were as close to ideal as they were going to get, then glided up into the first spiral.
Perfect!
The second went just as smoothly, and the third without a hitch. He was slightly ahead of her time, and he frowned in concentration, focused on the perfection of his technique, as he moved into the fourth spiral. He was just gathering velocity to imitate the flourish with which Angelique had ended her own flip, when the ski jumped under his feet.
It wasn’t much of a jump, but he was far too experienced a grav skier to think he’d imagined it. Another light jolt kicked at the soles of his feet. Again, it wasn’t particularly violent, and he was tempted to ride it out. He’d never competed professionally, but he knew he was among the Star Kingdom’s best grav skiers, and he was still firmly in control of the ski. He could put it down safely rather than baling and simply letting it crash.
Don’t be stupid, Roger. The thought flashed through his brain. You can get a new ski a hell of a lot easier than you can get a new neck, and the last thing you need is to bang yourself up at a moment like this! Ramirez is expecting you in less than three T-weeks now, you dummy!
He grimaced at the thought, but it was pure reflex and his left hand was already reaching for the tab to release him from the grav ski and onto the standby counter-grav pack. Then there was another jolt—this one a buck that must have been visible from the ground—and the shock shook his hand from the tab.
“I’m closing to help, Roger!” Angelique called over the com.
“I’m holding, love,” he responded, continuing to fumble for the release.
And then, impossibly, the ski failed completely. The velocity he’d brought into his last spiral turned against him, ripping his hands away from the release tab. The wind howled around his ears, no longer a joy but a demon, bent on his destruction. Fear burned through him, but he didn’t panic. He fought the slipstream, pulling his arms in close, sliding his hand down to the release tab even as he plummeted. His fingers found the tab once more, relief blossomed through the fear, and he pulled.
Nothing happened. Nothing at all.
Below him, the salt sands glittered bright, hard, and utterly unforgiving. He died with the sound of his wife’s scream in his ears and the sensation of a distant heart breaking.
October 1883 PD
THE MEN AND
WOMEN seated around the table rose as Elizabeth Adrienne Samantha Annette Winton—no longer Crown Princess or Heir, but Queen Elizabeth III of Manticore—walked into the cabinet room.
She moved with a regal, somber grace, a stateliness, few of the members of what had been her father’s Cabinet and now was hers had ever seen from her, and the treecat on her shoulder sat very tall and still, his tail hanging down her back like the banner of an army in mourning. The members of her Cabinet rose as one and bowed deeply as she crossed to her place at the head of the table with her aunt and regent, Caitrin Winton-Henke, Countess of Gold Peak, at her side.
Elizabeth lifted Ariel from her shoulder and set him on the back of her chair, then seated herself, followed a moment later by Countess Gold Peak. The cabinet officers waited courteously, then took their own seats at the youthful Queen’s gesture. It was the first time since her father’s death, three days before, that they’d all been gathered in one place, and they would be going from this cabinet room to King Michael’s Cathedral for Roger III’s state funeral and burial.
Silence hovered for several seconds, and then Elizabeth drew a deep breath.
“I won’t keep you long, My Lords and Ladies,” she said with unwonted formality, and more than one of those cabinet officers winced in sympathy, recognizing the way she used that courtesy as a shield for the wound gaping within her. “All of us have a great many things to do, and my—”