Her voice quivered, hovering for a moment on the edge of breaking, and she cleared her throat.
“All of us have a great many things to do,” she repeated huskily, “and my mother needs me.” She inhaled deeply. “However there are certain things which need saying, and I want all of you to hear them before . . . before my father’s funeral.”
She looked around the table once more, and her brown eyes were dark—wounded and shadowed with grief, yes, but touched with something else, as well. Something cold and hard. Something . . . dangerous.
“It’s obvious,” she continued after a moment, “that my father’s plan for a mutual defense treaty with San Martin is no longer possible. Its success would have depended on carrying the proposal in one, bold sweep, and whatever President Ramirez might want, he could never convince his legislature to approve an action which would necessarily infuriate the People’s Republic of Haven”—her mouth seemed to tighten and Ariel’s ears flattened—“at the invitation of a minor Queen who’s worn her crown for less than a week. That means we’re not going to find ourselves in a position to prevent the fall of Trevor’s Star.”
She made the admission bleakly, but for all the grief, all the anger, in that youthful voice, there was no despair, no hint of surrender, and those oddly hard brown eyes swept the members of her Cabinet once more.
“My father’s plans, all he committed himself to for over forty T-years, twenty-five of them as King, will not perish with his death,” she told them flatly. “His loss wounds us all—wounds the entire Star Kingdom, not just those of us who knew and loved him so very much—but I, My Lords and Ladies, I am his daughter, and I will not—I will not—let his life’s work go for naught.”
She shook her head once, sharply, and Ariel showed bone-white fangs for just a moment.
“I realize that at this moment the entire Manticoran Alliance is in a state of disarray, or will be, when all its members learn of Father’s death. It will take time to restore order and confidence, for the other members of the Alliance to realize the Star Kingdom’s policy hasn’t changed, and for them to gain confidence in my own capability as head of state. I believe it’s unlikely the People’s Republic”—again, that tightness around the lips—“will move against the Alliance or any of its members in the immediate future.” She smiled thinly. “The Peeps will be too busy digesting Trevor’s Star, once they take it, and I suspect they’ll find the San Martinos less than docile when they make the attempt. But in the end, the conflict my father saw is coming. Let no one delude herself over that point, because I most assuredly will not.”
Those wounded eyes were flint now, overlaid with an edge of steel, and her nostrils flared.
“The day will come when we find ourselves at war with the People’s Republic of Haven,” she told them softly, almost terribly, “and when it does, the Navy my father built, the Star Kingdom he prepared, will meet the Peoples Navy anywhere in space it can be found, and . . . we . . . will . . . destroy . . . it.”
Her forefinger tapped the table, in time with her last five words, and no one around that table breathed as the Queen sat back slowly in her chair.
“Over the next few days,” she continued after a moment, “Aunt Caitrin and I will be meeting individually with each of you. I want to review all of our preparations, our policies, but understand me. The House of Winton does not forget its duties, or its responsibilities . . . or its enemies. And in the fullness of time, I intend to demonstrate that to any who wish this Star Kingdom ill in terms the galaxy will never forget.”
She sat for a moment longer, regarding the men and women who knew now that they would never think of her as a teenager again. And then, once more, she inhaled deeply.
“And now, My Lords and Ladies, your King requires your services one final time.”
“Beth.”
Jonas Adcock turned quickly from the window towards the tall, slender young woman with the treecat on her shoulder. He still wore the dress uniform he’d worn to King Michael’s Cathedral for Roger’s funeral, but Elizabeth had shed her formal attire. She wore a simple white blouse and dark, tailored trousers.
And one more thing, Jonas thought. She wore the invisible weight of her crown, and those square young shoulders were unbowed by the burden.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her, and she let her cheek rest against his shoulder for a moment. Then she straightened.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Mom’s waiting for you, and Michael. But I wanted to see you for a minute, first. There’s something I need to tell you. Something I don’t want to discuss in front of them, especially Mikey.”
Jonas stiffened at the somber note in her voice. He’d heard about the Cabinet meeting, and there was something . . . perilous about his niece’s face. Something that actually frightened him, more than a little.
“Tell me what?” he asked.
“It wasn’t an accident,” she said, and that note in her voice had turned into edged steel. He frowned at her for a moment, trying to understand, and she showed her teeth. “It wasn’t a grav skiing accident, Uncle Jonas—Dad was murdered.”
“Beth!” He shook his head, trying to process what she’d just said. The words didn’t make sense. If Roger’s death hadn’t been an accident, then surely—!
“I know,” she said in that same, steely voice, as if she’d read his mind. “You’re afraid I’m imagining things. After all, if there were any evidence, any proof, we’d already have acted, wouldn’t we? We’d have someone under arrest. Unfortunately, there is evidence. In fact, there’s proof. And the man who sabotaged Dad’s grav ski, Padraic Dover—a major in Palace Security, Uncle Jonas; one of our own—tried to kill Justin, as well.” Her lips twisted, and he saw a soul-deep revulsion flash through her eyes. “Apparently he thought he could convince me to marry him, instead, if Justin was gone, so he took it upon himself to murder him, too. Unfortunately for him, that was enough to bring Monroe out of his withdrawal to save Justin’s life.”
She looked at her uncle squarely, and her eyes glittered with a cold, hard light he’d never seen in them before.
“He didn’t stop there, either,” she said harshly. “Justin and Inspector Chu had been putting things together already, and Dover actually confessed when Justin confronted him. Which was the last and worst mistake he ever made in his miserable life, because when Monroe realized what he’d done, he ripped his fucking throat out.”
Her voice was harsh, dark with hate and satisfaction. Her expression actually frightened him, and Ariel’s ears were flat to his skull on her shoulder. The treecat’s entire body bristled with vengeful hatred, and the soft, high snarl of his rage hung in the air like an echo of Elizabeth’s own hatred.
For a moment, Jonas found it a difficult to breathe, but then her eyes softened and she reached up to touch Ariel’s head gently.
“We were going to lose Monroe, too, Uncle Jonas. He was grieving himself to death, and none of us could convince him to eat or drink. But now . . . now he’s going to make it. I think he’s bonded with Justin, in fact. I could wish we’d taken Dover alive for interrogation and trial, but there’s no question about his guilt, and I’ll gladly give up his formal execution if that gives us back Monroe. Besides, even without his testimony, we know who else he was working with.”
Jonas stared at her, and that soft, fierce snarl echoed from Ariel once more.
“‘Working with’?” he repeated after a moment. “You mean he wasn’t acting alone? It was some . . . some kind of plot against the Crown?”
“Oh, I think you could call it that,” Elizabeth agreed icily. “Dover was too stupid—or too full of himself, at any rate—to come up with something like this all by himself, Uncle Jonas! Oh, no. Someone else recruited him and gave him the tech support he needed to make it work, and that ‘someone else’ was Marvin Seltman and Baroness Stallman, along with the Earl of Howell and Jean Marrou.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Jonas shook himself, tr
ying to understand. Those four names read like a Who’s Who of the inner power circles of the Liberal and Progressive Parties! And Howell? The man was a Crown Loyalist! He’d been one of the leading candidates to serve as Elizabeth’s regent before she chose her aunt!
“There’s no question,” Elizabeth said flatly. “Marrou’s turned Crown’s Evidence—she was . . . unaware of all of the ramifications of the plot—and when she realized how she’d been used, she brought us recordings of Stallman and Seltman admitting their guilt, and their motivations, which would be admissible in any court. No, Uncle Jonas. We have absolute, conclusive evidence of their guilt.
“And I can’t do a thing about it.”
“What?” Jonas stared at her. “But . . . but—” He sucked in a deep breath, feeling the sudden burn of tears in his eyes. “Damn it, Bethie—they killed Roger! They killed your father—my friend and my King! What do you mean you can’t do anything about it?” He shook his head savagely, vaguely stunned by the fury he felt—fury directed at the grieving young woman in front of him because there was no one else to direct it at—and showed his teeth. “Maybe you can’t, but I sure as hell can! I’ll kill the bastards with my own two hands!”
“No, you won’t,” she told him in that same, flat voice of hammered iron. “And you won’t for the same reasons Aunt Caitrin and Jacob convinced me I couldn’t challenge them to duels and shoot them. There are . . . factors involved that you don’t know about yet. Reasons we can’t take any official cognizance of Marrou’s evidence, whatever we want.”
“‘Official cognizance’?” He pounced on the qualifier like a wounded hexapuma, and she nodded.
“They won’t get off scot-free, I promise,” she told him. “They know I know exactly what happened, and all of them are going ‘into retirement’ starting tomorrow. They can give whatever reasons they damn well want, but if they ever so much as give another speech, far less ever try to enter politics again, it’ll be the last mistake they ever make. I may not be able to move officially against them at this moment, but that won’t be true forever, and they know it. If they ever give me the slightest excuse I’ll have them crushed, and they know that, too. But the reason I can’t take any open action against any of them now, Uncle Jonas, is because the whole thing was set up by the Peeps. Marrou and Howell didn’t know that, but Seltman and Stallman most certainly did know they were being paid off by Peep agents. Finding that out was what pushed Marrou into turning the others in, and we’ve got times, dates, and amounts on their payments. Chu and the Ministry of Justice got complete copies of their bank records. I’ve ordered them sealed under the Defense of the Realm Act, but those bastards know I’ll unseal them and use them to hang the lot of them if they push me.
“But we can’t do it yet. We just can’t go public, not when I know exactly how Parliament and public opinion would react. We don’t have all the details even now, but it’s obvious what the Peeps wanted, and they got it. Admiral Big Sky told me this morning that the Peoples Navy will be moving against Trevor’s Star sometime within the next two weeks, and we’re not in a position to do anything about it. Worse, if I make public accusations against the PRH, if the Star Kingdom’s people find out who murdered their King, they won’t leave the government any choice. We’d find ourselves at war with the Peoples Republic tomorrow . . . and we’d have to fight without the advantages of a forward position in Trevor’s Star.
“I can’t do that.” Her eyes gleamed with tears over a core of frozen steel. “Much as I want to, much as everything inside me screams to accuse them, to rip out their black hearts for murdering my father, I can’t. I can’t commit my entire Star Kingdom to a war we’ll probably lose, no matter how much I want to. So they’re going to get away with it. They’ve already gotten away with it, and I can’t stop them.”
“Oh, Bethie,” he whispered, reaching out to fold her in his arms once more, and he felt the grief and pain—and the bitter, driving will—in that tall, slim body.
“I can’t stop them,” she repeated in his ear. “Not now. Not yet. But we will stop them, Uncle Jonas.”
She straightened once more, looking into his eyes.
“Dad told me about his plans for the Weapons Development Board, and nothing’s changed as far as I’m concerned, except for this one thing. I can’t openly accuse the Peeps of having murdered Dad, but when they take Trevor’s Star, they’re going to give me the card Dad didn’t have. There won’t be any more arguing, any more debate. Aunt Caitrin and I will use the threat of the fall of the Trevor’s Star Terminus—the conquest of San Martin, one of our oldest trading partners, a single warp bridge from the Junction—to ram through the biggest increase in military spending in the history of the Star Kingdom. We’re going to double our building rate, Uncle Jonas, and in the midst of all that budget, we’re going to find the funding for the WDB and to push Gram even harder than we ever have before. We’re going to do that—you’re going to do that for me—and when the time comes, the two of us—you and I, Uncle Jonas—we’re going to destroy the People’s Republic of Haven. As God is my witness, I will take that murderous excuse for a star nation apart brick by brick. I will find whoever ordered my father’s murder, and I will send that blackhearted bastard to hell with my own two hands.”
Her brown eyes looked deep, deep into his, and Jonas Adcock shivered at what he saw in their depths.
“Trust me,” she said very, very softly. “They think they’ve gotten away with it, but they’re wrong, Uncle Jonas. They can’t even guess how wrong they are about that.”
November 1914 PD
“STAND BY FOR TRANSLATION . . . now.”
Captain (Junior Grade) Jonathan Yerensky announced the return to normal-space, and Hamish Alexander, Earl of White Haven, grimaced as the familiar discomfort and disorientation lashed through him. That was one nice thing about being a senior admiral, he thought. By the time you acquired as much rank as he had, you no longer had to worry about impressing uppity juniors with your stoicism. If crossing the alpha wall made you feel like throwing up, you could go ahead and admit it . . . and nobody dared laugh.
He grinned at the reflection, but his eyes were already on his repeater plot on Benjamin the Great’s flag deck, waiting for CIC’s updates while he listened to a murmured litany of background reports without really hearing them. His staff had been with him for over three T-years; after the next best thing to ten brutal T-years of war, they knew exactly what he needed to know immediately and what he expected them to handle on their own, and he knew he could rely on them to do just that.
Which freed White Haven to study his bland, uninformative plot and worry.
Well, uninformative from the enemy’s side, he amended, for quite a few Allied icons burned on the display. First, there were the seventy-three superdreadnoughts and eleven dreadnoughts of his wall of battle, thirty of them the radically new, hollow-cored Harrington/Medusa class with their massive loads of multidrive missiles. Then there were the traditional screening elements, already spreading out to assume missile defense positions. And last, there were the seventeen CLACs of Alice Truman’s task group and their escorts—battlecruisers and heavy cruisers, with four attached dreadnoughts to give them a little extra weight—astern of the main formation. A blizzard of diamond chips erupted from the CLACs as he watched, and he smiled grimly as the deadly swarm of light attack craft began to shake down into formation even as they accelerated ahead of the main body. CIC had a tight lock on them when they launched, but their EW was already on-line, and within minutes even Benjamin the Great’s sensors began to lose them.
A second blizzard, almost as dense, sped outward at accelerations even a LAC could never hope to match, and White Haven tipped back his command chair as the FTL-capable recon drones darted in-system.
I actually feel almost as calm as I’m trying to look, he reflected with some surprise. Of course, that’s because I can be reasonably confident the Peeps don’t have a clue as to what’s coming at them. Whether or not that wil
l be true—and whether or not it will matter if it isn’t—the next time around are two different questions, of course.
He watched the drones speeding steadily inward, and he smiled.
Citizen Admiral Alec Dimitri and Citizen Commissioner Sandra Connors were in DuQuesne Base’s war room for a routine briefing when an alarm buzzed. The tall, stocky citizen admiral turned quickly, trained eyes seeking the status board, and Citizen Commissioner Connors turned almost as quickly. Neither she nor Dimitri had ever expected in their worst nightmares that they would suddenly find themselves responsible for the Barnett System, the biggest and most powerful naval base the People’s Republic had ever built, but they’d served as understudies to Thomas Theisman and Denis LePic for the better part of four T-years. Both were serious about their duty, and even if they hadn’t been, Theisman and LePic would have made damned sure the two of them were intimately familiar with the system and its defenses. As a result, Connors’ eyes were only fractionally slower than Dimitri’s in finding the fresh datum, and her frown mirrored his own.
“Twenty-two light-minutes from the primary?” she murmured, and Dimitri turned his head to give her a tight smile.
“It does seem a bit . . . overly cautious of them. Especially on that broad a bearing from Enki,” he agreed, and wondered what the hell the Manties thought they were up to. Barnett was only a G9 star, with a hyper limit of just a hair over eighteen light-minutes, so why were they turning up a full four light-minutes farther out than they had to? And on a bearing from the primary which added yet four more unnecessary light-minutes to their distance from their only possible objective?
The citizen admiral clamped his hands behind him and took a slow, deliberate turn around the command balcony above the enormous war room. His outermost sensor shell was seventeen light-minutes from the primary, far enough from the gravitational center of Barnett to give the enormous passive arrays a reach of almost two and a half light-weeks, over which they could expect to pick up the hyper transit of anything much bigger than a courier boat. That range put them nine light-minutes outside the planet Enki, and the actual range to the platform closest to the Manties was about thirteen light-minutes. Which meant it would be another—he checked the time—ten minutes and twenty-six seconds before he got a light-speed report from the sensors with the best look at whatever was coming at him. On the other hand, the inner-system arrays had more than enough reach to at least detect such a massive hyper translation. They’d picked up the faster-than-light ripple along the alpha wall as the Manties made transit, and they were picking up a confused clutch of impeller drive signatures now. But they were much too far away to see anything else, which meant Tracking’s reports were going to be maddeningly vague until the Manties were a lot deeper in-system. Unfortunately, Tracking had already picked up enough for Dimitri to feel certain the enemy would be coming in a lot deeper. The estimate blinking on the main board said there were over seventy of the wall headed for Enki, and that was no raiding force.