"Mr. Hauptman, Sir Thomas."
Sir Thomas Caparelli, First Space Lord of the Royal
Manticoran Navy, rose with his very best effort at a smile
of welcome as his yeoman ushered his guest into his huge
office. He suspected it wasn't very convincing, but, then,
Klaus Hauptman wasn't one of his favorite people.
"Sir Thomas." The dark-haired man with the dramatically
white sideburns and bulldog jaw gave him a curt nod. He
wasn't being especially rude; that was how he greeted
almost everyone, and he held out his hand as if to soften
his brusqueness. "Thank you for seeing me." He did not
add "at last," but Sir Thomas heard it anyway and felt his
smile become just a bit more fixed.
"Please have a seat." The burly admiral in whom one could
still see the bruising soccer player who'd led the Academy
to three system championships waved his guest politely
into the comfortable chair facing his desk, then sat
himself and nodded dismissal to the yeoman.
"Thank you," Hauptman repeated. He sat in the indicated
chair-like, Caparelli thought, an emperor taking his
throne-and cleared his throat. "I know you have many
charges on your time, Sir Thomas, so I'll come straight to
the point. And the point is that conditions in the
Confederacy are becoming intolerable."
"I realize it's a bad situation, Mr. Hauptman," Caparelli
began, "but the war front is-"
"Excuse me, Sir Thomas," Hauptman interrupted, "but I
understand the situation at the front. Indeed, Admiral
Cortez and Admiral Givens have-as I'm certain you
instructed them to-explained it to me at considerable
length. I realize you and the Navy are under tremendous
pressure, but losses in Silesia are becoming catastrophic,
and not just for the Hauptman Cartel."
Caparelli clenched his jaw and reminded himself to move
carefully. Klaus Hauptman was arrogant, opinionated, and
ruthless ... and the wealthiest single individual in the
entire Star Kingdom of Manticore. Which was saying quite a
bit. Despite its limitation to a single star system, the
Star Kingdom was the third wealthiest star nation in a
five-hundred-light-year sphere in absolute terms. In per
capita terms, not even the Solarian League matched
Manticore. A great deal of that was fortuitous, the result
of the Manticore Worm Hole Junction which made the
Manticore Binary System the crossroads of eighty percent
of the long-haul commerce of its sector. But almost as
much of its wealth stemmed from what the Star Kingdom had
done with the opportunity that presented, for generations
of monarchs and parliaments had reinvested the Junction's
wealth with care. Outside the Solarian League, no one in
the known galaxy could match the Manticoran tech base or
output per man-hour, and Manticore's universities
challenged those of Old Earth herself. And, Caparelli
admitted, Klaus Hauptman and his father and grandfather
had had a great deal to do with building the
infrastructure which made that possible.
Unfortunately, Hauptman knew it, and he sometimes-often,
in Caparelli's view-acted as if the Star Kingdom belonged
to him as a consequence.
"Mr. Hauptman," the admiral said after a moment, "I'm very
sorry about the losses you and the other cartels are
suffering. But your request, however reasonable it may
seem, is simply impossible to grant at this time."
"With all due respect, Sir Thomas, the Navy had better
make it possible." Hauptman's flat tone was just short of
insulting, but he stopped himself, then drew a deep
breath. "Excuse me," he said in the voice of one clearly
unaccustomed to apologizing. "That was rude and
confrontational. Nonetheless, there's also a kernel of
truth in it. The war effort depends upon the strength of
our economy. The shipping duties, transfer fees, and
inventory taxes my colleagues and I pay are already three
times what they were at the start of the war, and-"
Caparelli opened his mouth, but Hauptman held up a
hand. "Please. I'm not complaining about duties and taxes.
We're at war with the second largest empire in known
space, and someone has to pay the freight. My colleagues
and I realize that. But you must realize that if losses
continue climbing, we'll have no choice but to cut back or
even entirely eliminate our shipping to Silesia. I leave
it to you to estimate what that will mean for the Star
Kingdom's revenues and war effort."
Caparelli's eyes narrowed, and Hauptman shook his head.
"That's not a threat; it's simply a fact of life.
Insurance rates have already reached an all-time high, and
they're still climbing; if they rise another twenty
percent, we'll lose money on cargos which reach their
destinations. And in addition to our financial losses,
there's also the loss of life involved. Our people-my
people, people who've worked for me for decades-are being
killed, Sir Thomas."
Caparelli sat back with an unwilling sense of agreement,
for Hauptman was right. The Confederacy's weak central
government had always made it a risky place, but its
worlds were huge markets for the Star Kingdom's industrial
products, machinery, and civilian technology transfers,
not to mention an important source of raw materials. And
however much Caparelli might personally dislike Hauptman,
the magnate had every right to demand the Navy's help. It
was, after all, one of the Navy's primary missions to
protect Manticoran commerce and citizens, and prior to the
present war, the Royal Manticoran Navy had done just that
in Silesia.
Unfortunately, it had required a major fleet presence. Not
of battle squadrons-using ships of the wall against
pirates would have been like swatting flies with a
sledgehammer-but of light combatants. And the critical
needs of the RMN's war against the People's Republic of
Haven had drawn those lighter units off. They were
desperately needed to screen the heavy squadrons and for
the countless patrols and scouting and convoy escorts the
Fleet required for its very survival. There were never
enough cruisers and destroyers to go around, and the
overriding need for capital ships diverted yard space from
building them in the necessary numbers.
The admiral sighed and rubbed his forehead. He wasn't the
RMN's most brilliant flag officer. He knew his strengths-
courage, integrity, and enough bullheaded stubbornness for
any three people-but he also admitted his weaknesses.
Officers like the Earl of White Haven or Lady Sonja
Hemphill always made him uncomfortable, for he knew as
well as they that they were his intellectual superiors.
And White Haven, Caparelli admitted, had the infuriating
gall to be not only a better strategist, but a better
tactician, as well. Nonetheless, it was Sir Thomas
Caparelli who'd been named First Space Lord just in time
for the war to explode in his face. That made it his job
to win the thing, and he was determined to do just that.
Yet it was also his job to protect Manticoran civilians in
the course of their legitimate commercial activities, and
he was desperately conscious of how thin his Navy was
stretched.
"I understand your concerns," he said finally, "and I
can't disagree with anything you've said. The problem is
that we're stretched right to the very limit. I can't-not
won't, but literally cannot-withdraw additional warships
from the front to reinforce our convoy escorts in
Silesia."
"Well we have to do something." Hauptman spoke quietly,
and Caparelli sensed the arrogant magnate's very real
effort to match his own reasonable tone. "The convoy
system helps during transits between sectors, of course.
We haven't lost a single ship that was under escort, and,
believe me, my colleagues and I all appreciate that. But
the raiders realize as well as we do that they can't
attack the convoys. They also know simple astrographics
require us to route over two-thirds of our vessels
independently after they reach their destination
sectors ... and that the available escorts simply can't
cover us when we do."
Caparelli nodded somberly. No one was losing any ships in
the convoys covering transit between Silesia's nodal
sector administration centers, but the pirates more than
made up for that by snapping up merchantmen after they had
to leave the convoys to proceed to the individual worlds
of the Confederacy.
"I'm not certain how much more we can do, Sir," the
admiral said after a long, silent moment. "Admiral White
Haven's returning to Manticore sometime next week. I'll
confer with him then, see if there's any way we can
reorganize and pry a few more escorts loose, but, frankly,
until we can somehow take Trevor's Star, I'm not
optimistic. In the meantime, I'll put my staff to work on
an immediate study of anything-and I do mean anything, Mr.
Hauptman-we can do to ease the situation. I assure you
that this matter has the second highest priority, after
Trevor's Star itself. I'll do everything possible to
reduce your losses. You have my personal word on that."
Hauptman sat back in his chair, studying the admiral's
face, then grunted. The sound was weary, irate, and just a
little desperate, but he nodded grudgingly.
"I can ask no more than that, Sir Thomas," he said
heavily. "I won't insult you by trying to insist on
miracles, but the situation is very, very grave. I'm not
certain we have another month ... but I am certain we have
no more than four, five at the most, before the cartels
will be forced to suspend operations in Silesia."
"I understand," Caparelli repeated, rising to extend his
hand. "I'll do what I can-and as quickly as I can-and I
promise I'll personally brief you on the situation as soon
as I've had a chance to confer with Admiral White Haven.
With your permission, I'll have my yeoman set up another
meeting with you for that purpose. Perhaps we can think of
something at that time. Until then, please stay in touch.
You and your colleagues may actually have a better feel
for the situation than we do at the Admiralty, and any
input you can offer my analysts and planning people will
be greatly appreciated."
"Very well," Hauptman sighed, standing in turn, and
gripped the admiral's hand, then surprised Caparelli with
a wry smile. "I realize I'm not the easiest man in the
universe to get along with, Sir Thomas. I'm trying very
hard not to be the proverbial bull in the china shop, and
I genuinely appreciate both the difficulties you face and
the efforts you're making on our behalf. I only hope that
there's an answer somewhere."
"So do I, Mr. Hauptman," Caparelli said quietly, escorting
his guest to the door. "So do I."
Admiral of the Green Hamish Alexander, Thirteenth Earl of
White Haven, wondered if he looked as weary as he felt.
The earl was ninety T-years old, though in a pre-prolong
society he would have been taken for no more than a very
well preserved forty, and even that would have been only
because of the white stranded through his black hair. But
there were new lines around his ice-blue eyes, and he was
only too well aware of his own fatigue.
He watched space's ebon black give way to deep indigo
beyond the view port as his pinnace dropped towards the
city of Landing and felt that weariness aching in his
bones. The Star Kingdom-or, at least, the realistic part
of it-had dreaded the inevitable war with the People's
Republic for over fifty T-years, and the Navy (and Hamish
Alexander) had spent those years preparing for it. Now
that war was almost three years old ... and proving just
as brutal as he'd feared.
It wasn't that the Peeps were that good; it was just that
they were so damned big. Despite the internal wounds the
People's Republic had inflicted upon itself since
Hereditary President Harris's assassination, despite its
ramshackle economy and the pogroms which had cost the
People's Navy its most experienced officers, despite even
the indolence of the Republic's Dolists, it remained a
juggernaut. Had its industrial plant been even half as
efficient as the Star Kingdom's, the situation would have
been hopeless. As it was, a combination of skill,
determination, and more luck than any competent strategist
would dare count on had allowed the RMN to hold its own so
far.
But holding its own wasn't enough.
White Haven sighed and massaged his aching eyes. He hated
leaving the front, but at least he'd been able to leave
Admiral Theodosia Kuzak in command. He could count on
Theodosia to hold things together in his absence. White
Haven snorted at the thought. Hell, maybe she could
actually take Trevor's Star. God knew he hadn't had much
success in that department!
He lowered his hand from his eyes and gazed back out the
view port while he took himself to task for that last
thought. The truth was that he'd had a very "good" war to
date. In the first year of operations, his Sixth Fleet had
cut deep into the Republic, inflicting what would have
been fatal losses for any smaller navy along the way. He
and his fellow admirals had actually managed to equalize
the daunting odds they'd faced at the start of the war,
and taken no less than twenty-four star systems. But the
second and third years had been different. The Peeps were
back on balance, and Rob Pierre's Committee of Public
Safety had initiated a reign of terror guaranteed to
stiffen the spine of any Peep admiral. And if the
destruction of the Legislaturalist dynasties which had
ruled the old People's Republic had cost the PN its most
experienced admirals, it had also destroyed the patronage
system which had kept other officers from rising to the
seniority their capabilities deserved. Now that the
Legislaturalists were out of the way, some of those new
admirals were proving very tough customers. Like Admiral
Esther McQueen, the senior Peep officer at Trevor's Star.
White Haven grimaced at the view port. According to ONI,
the people's commissioners the Committee of Public Safety
had appointed to keep the People's Navy in line were the
ones who really called the shots. If that was so, if
political commissars truly were degrading the performance
of officers like McQueen, White Haven could only be
grateful. He'd begun getting a feel for the woman over the
last few months, and he suspected he was a better
strategist than she. But his edge, if in fact he had one,
was far thinner than he would have liked, and she had ice
water in her veins. She understood the strengths and
weaknesses of her forces, knew her technology was more
primitive and her officer corps less experienced, but she
also knew sufficient numbers and an unflinching refusal to
be bullied into mistakes could offset that. When one added
the way Manticore's need to take Trevor's Star simplified
the strategic equation for her, she was giving as good as
she got. Losses had been very nearly even since she took
over, and Manticore simply couldn't afford that. Not in a
war that looked like it might well last for decades. And
not, White Haven admitted, when every month increased the
threat that the Republic would begin to figure out how to
redress its technological and industrial disadvantages.