CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Fat flakes of snow fell like silent, feathery ghosts in the windless sub-arctic night beyond the window. Hamish Alexander stood watching them through the thick, double-paned plastic and felt the welcome heat of the fire against his back. His study was in the oldest part of White Haven, the sprawling Alexander family seat, and the walls of native stone were over two meters thick. Unlike some commodities, rock had been plentiful when White Haven was first built, and enough of it worked just as well as more esoteric off-world insulation would have.

He turned back to the huge fireplace and added another log. He adjusted it with the poker, settling the native hemlock (which, in fact, bore very little resemblance to the Old Earth tree of the same name) into the bed of coals, then straightened and replaced the poker in its stand as he checked the wall clock again. It was twelve past comp, well into the twenty-seven-minute midnight "hour" officially called Compensate that adjusted Manticore's 22.45-hour day to permit use of Standard Reckoning time units, and his eyebrow rose again. Even allowing for the time zone difference, it was unusual for his brother to screen him this late—and even more unusual for him to specify the exact time at which he would call.

The com terminal on his desk beeped as if to punctuate his thoughts, and he walked briskly over to answer it. He sat in the huge, padded chair his great-grandfather had commissioned from the craftsmen of the Sandalwood System over a T-century before and signaled acceptance of the call.

The screen lit with his younger brother's face.

"Hi, Hamish," the Honorable William MacLeish Alexander said.

"Hello, Willie." Alexander tipped the chair back and crossed his legs. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Your Commander Harrington," William replied, coming to the point even more quickly than usual.

"My Commander Harrington?" Alexander arched both eyebrows, and William grinned from the screen.

"Don't take that surprised tone with me, Hamish! You've gloated enough over what she's been up to."

"`Gloat' is such a crude word," Alexander protested. Then he grinned back. "Still, I suppose I have alluded to her achievements a time or two."

"And usually as rudely as possible, when there's a Liberal or Progressive in the vicinity," William agreed.

"A family trait. But just what was it you wanted to say about her?"

"Actually, I'm acting in something of the role of an emissary for my esteemed prime minister." William's words remained light, but there was an undertone of seriousness in his voice. "Were you aware that Klaus Hauptman went out in person to browbeat her into backing off?"

"No, I wasn't." Alexander made no effort to hide his disgust. "I suppose I should have expected it. I doubt he succeeded, though."

"No, he didn't—but I'd like to know why you seem so confident he wouldn't have."

"If Harrington were the sort to back down, she would have done it already. Besides, I've been peeking at Jim Webster's reports on a fairly regular basis. She couldn't be doing the job she is or raising this much general hell if she were stupid or hadn't thought the whole operation through ahead of time. That means she must have known what sort of reaction she was going to face before she decided to go ahead and step on the land mine."

"Land mine's a pretty good word," William agreed with sudden, complete seriousness, "and if she had backed down, it might have blown up more than just her career."

Alexander said nothing, but his eyes asked the question, and his brother shrugged.

"Before he went out, Hauptman hit every button he could reach back home in Landing. He didn't make much headway with the Duke, but he certainly bent Janacek's ear. And he called in his markers with Countess Marisa and Sheridan Wallace's `New Men,' too. I think we've underestimated the contributions he's been making to certain parties' coffers, including the New Men, but he definitely has his hooks even deeper into the Liberals than we'd thought. Marisa can't give a centimeter—officially—without breaking with the Government and losing her post as Minister for Medusan Affairs. She's not about to do that, but it's pretty obvious she and Wallace were primed to come down on the Navy's entire handling of Basilisk Station. If Harrington had crumbled at this point, they would've been able to claim the Navy, in her person, had bungled and made the Kingdom a galactic laughing stock by first creating interstellar incidents with our neighbors and then proving its irresolution by backing away from its duties under pressure."

Alexander snorted contemptuously, and his brother gave a grim, wintry smile. "Of course it would all have been gobbledygook. They've never complained about the situation on Basilisk Station before, and jumping on Harrington for going back to the status quo ante at the same time they criticize her for changing the status quo in the first place would be as stupid as it would be illogical. On the other hand, the Liberals have never been noted for the logic with which they approach Basilisk, have they? And if they talked fast enough and loud enough, they could probably engender enough confusion—especially among the uncommitted peers and MPs who'd probably see any retreat on Harrington's part as a slap in the face to the Kingdom's prestige—to at least get a motion to repeal the annexation onto the table."

"A lot of good that would do them," Alexander growled.

"Depends on how they did it, Hamish," William warned soberly. "And on who they got to help them do it. For instance, it looks like High Ridge was ready to support at least their initial moves."

"High Ridge was throwing in with Marisa and Wallace? That's a switch," Alexander observed.

"And not one that bodes well for the Conservative Association's continued support for the Duke," William agreed. "I suppose that was Janacek and North Hollow more than anyone else. Harrington's making that ass Young—and, by implication, Janacek himself—look worse every day. But the point is that all the Opposition parties have been riding their rank and file pretty hard to prep them for some big move once Hauptman bullied Harrington into backing down, and Wallace was going to play hatchet man. He even went as far as to put down his name and `the state of affairs on Basilisk Station' on the list of next month's Official Questions."

"Oh ho!" Alexander shook his head with a small smile. The Official Questions list gave the Opposition a way to force the Government to allow open (and generally partisan) discussion of things it might prefer to avoid. A prime minister could refuse to answer an Official Question only if he certified, with the backing of the Crown and the Chief Justice of the Queen's Bench, that answering it would jeopardize the Kingdom's security. Even then, the Government had no choice but to permit individual members of Parliament to debate the Question in secret session. Potentially, that made the list an extremely effective parliamentary weapon, but it was a double-edged sword, and the timing could go wrong. Like now. Under the unwritten portion of the Manticoran constitutional tradition, a Question could not be withdrawn, even by its author, once it was on the list.

"Clumsy, clumsy," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Absolutely. Since he can't withdraw it now, Harrington's given us the perfect shot to ram through amendments to the original Act of Annexation. But that's only true if she's still senior officer on the station when the Question comes up."

"Well, I know Jim certainly doesn't plan to pull her. And Janacek can't, if Jim and Lucien Cortez stand firm. I think they will."

"And if Young gets himself back on station?"

"Now that," Alexander admitted, "is a more ticklish point. Jim and Lucien can't stop him from going back out any more than Janacek can relieve Harrington. Not unless they want to come out into the open and declare war on the Conservatives. And if it comes to an open showdown between them and the First Lord, they'll lose. They have to, or the whole concept of civilian control of the military goes out the airlock."

"That's what I was afraid of." William sighed. "Our spies in the enemy camp suggest that High Ridge is pressuring North Hollow to `suggest' his son bite the bullet and go back without his ship if he has to."

"Won't work," Alexander said firmly. "In a sense, he was SO in Basilisk only because his ship was assigned there and he went with her."

"What do you mean?" William looked puzzled, and his brother's grin was wicked.

"That's always been one of the problems with the picket there, Willie. You see, officially, there is no `Basilisk Station' to command—not in the sense that there's a Manticore Fleet District or Gryphon Fleet District—thanks to the Act of Annexation and Janacek's own policies. That means the picket's SO isn't in the same position as, say, a squadron commander. In the case of a squadron or an official station or district, a commanding officer is responsible for all operations in his designated command area and for every ship assigned to it. But thanks to the mish-mash we've actually got in Basilisk, where there's no formally specified command area at all, Young's primary responsibility was to act as captain of his own heavy cruiser. It was only the fact that he was the senior RMN officer present that made him the picket commander. Or, to put it another way, Warlock is his `designated command area,' and his authority beyond her hull is restricted by her current physical location and functions on a strictly ad hoc basis. Oh, if he'd detached himself from Warlock to Fearless in the first place, the Admiralty wouldn't have objected. In fact, that's what he ought to have done. But when he officially `delegated' the SO's job to Harrington by removing his ship from the picket, he released himself—unilaterally—from any responsibility for or authority over Basilisk Station until his refit is completed. Technically, he can't go back without Warlock without absenting himself from his post unless Lucien cuts him orders to that effect. I can't quite see Lucien doing that, and I can see Jim getting awfully stuffy about the letter of the regs all of a sudden if Young tries to reassume command there without Warlock."

"But how close is he to getting Warlock back from the yard?" William asked anxiously. "Can he get back there with his ship before Wallace's Question comes up?"

"He might." Alexander sat back and drummed on the desk blotter with the fingers of both hands. He thought for several seconds, then shook his head. "He just might, at that."

"All right." William drew a deep breath. "You understand, of course, that this has to be completely unofficial, Hamish." Alexander nodded, already guessing what was coming next. "The Duke has asked me to tell you that Her Majesty's Government would find it most convenient if Lord Pavel Young is not on Basilisk Station for the next month."

"I understand, Willie." Alexander gazed at his brother for a few more seconds, then shrugged. "I'll see what I can do—unofficially, of course."

"Thanks, Hamish. We appreciate it."

"Anything for a good cause, Willie," Alexander said. "See you later."

His brother nodded, and Alexander cut the circuit. He sat in pensive thought for a moment, and then punched a scramble-coded number into the com. The screen lit with a "WAIT" prompt, then cleared to show a sleep-tousled James Webster.

"Who—? Oh, for God's sake, Hamish! Can't you let a working man sleep?"

"'Fraid not. I just got off the screen with Willie, and he's got a little job for us." Alexander outlined his conversation with his brother in a few short sentences, and Webster's eyes widened while the last vestiges of sleep faded from them.

"Don't want much, do they?" he asked sardonically when Alexander finished.

"No more than we do. This sounds like the perfect opportunity to catch the Opposition with its shorts around its ankles, Jim. From what Willie's told me in the past, a pretty firm majority in the Lords is impressed enough by Harrington's accomplishments to stand with the Government, and we already had a strong majority in the Commons. If Wallace has to ask his Question while she's still acting SO, the Government can respond using her policies as its basis, not Young's, and make her look like exactly what she is—a decisive officer fully discharging the Navy's responsibilities for the first time in twenty years. And they can argue that what's needed is to see to it that other officers are in a position to do the same thing in the future. If that happens, we can actually turn Basilisk Station into something that works instead of a half-assed nightmare. Harrington's done her part for us; all we have to do is keep Young here in Manticore and off her back a little longer."

"Hamish, I'll be the first to admit I dream about a chance like this, but just how do you propose to pull that off? I can guarantee Lucien won't give him permission to quit his ship and that I won't let him go back without her, but Warlock can't be all that far from completing her refit."

"I know. But, you know, Jim, even the best refit crews can fall off their stride from time to time."

"I don't think this is something the First Space Lord should know about."

"In that case, don't tell him." Alexander flashed a sudden, boyish grin. "Don't tell me you don't sometimes forget to mention things to your official persona!"

"It's been known to happen from time to time," Webster allowed. "What won't I be telling myself this time?"

"I'm going to go up and have a little talk with Craig, I think. Can I tell him that you've blessed my mission—unofficially, of course?"

"Unofficially, but fervently," Webster agreed.

"Good. Thanks, Jim. Sorry to have dragged you out of bed."

"Don't worry about it. Just go do a good job on Craig."

"Oh, I will," Alexander agreed with a smile. "I will."

Vice Admiral of the Red Sir Craig Warner, Commanding Officer of Her Majesty's Space Station Hephaestus, stole the time from his schedule to meet the private yacht personally. Longer ago than he liked to remember, a very young Commander Warner had found himself embroiled in a duel over a drunken insult to the good name of a lady. His captain at the time, a most well-born nobleman, had disapproved rather strongly of the practice of dueling, but when the circumstances and graphic nature of the insult had been explained to him, he had astounded Commander Warner by offering to act as his second. The lady in question was now married to Vice Admiral Warner and the mother of his four children, and his then captain had become a very close friend—and godfather to Warner's oldest son. So when Hamish Alexander asked for a few hours of his time, Warner was only too happy to oblige.

Now the yacht completed its docking maneuver, and Warner stepped up to the personnel tube to greet his visitor. It was an unofficial visit and Alexander was in civilian dress—he'd been on half-pay since the first week Sir Edward Janacek took over the Admiralty—so no formal courtesies intruded.

"Good to see you again, Craig," Alexander said, shaking his hand firmly. "About ready for a real space-going command again?"

"They also serve who stand and weld," Warner replied solemnly. "On the other hand, I did hear something about a battle squadron that needs a good flag officer."

"Really?" Alexander grinned. "When?"

"I've got another seven months here first, unfortunately. BuShips likes me more than I'd like them to."

"It's because you're so damned efficient," Alexander teased as they headed for the personnel capsules.

"True. Too true. But what can I do for you, Hamish? Want a tour of my little workshop?"

"Maybe later. In fact, I'm sure I would later. But first, I need to bend your ear for a few minutes. In private."

Warner shot his superior a very sharp look indeed, then shrugged and waved him into the capsule.

"In that case, let's take this to my office," he suggested, punching buttons, and Alexander nodded.

The capsule deposited them at a terminal less than fifty meters from Warner's office, and the two admirals walked down the passage side by side, chatting amiably and harmlessly. Warner's aide and personal yeoman were waiting, but their boss shooed them out and closed the hatch firmly behind them. Then he gestured Alexander into a comfortable chair, poured drinks, and sat down behind his desk.

"And now," he said, "what's all this `unofficial visit' about, Hamish?"

"It's about Basilisk Station," Alexander replied, and Warner blinked in surprise. "More specifically, it's about the possibility of finally getting our hands untied there. Interested?"

"Very. But where do I come in?"

"Well, Craig, it's like this... ." Alexander leaned back to cross his legs, and reported his conversation with his brother yet again. Warner listened intently, nodding his understanding of each point, then tipped back his own chair.

"So you and Admiral Webster want me to hang Young out to dry?" he said when Alexander was done.

"More or less—and very unofficially. How about it? Can you swing it for us?"

"I don't know, Hamish." Warner plucked at his lower lip, frowning in thought, then shrugged. "The thing is, I have to admit I've already been dragging my heels ever since word of Harrington's activities started getting around, just to watch the little bastard squirm. He hasn't been getting the work priorities he thinks he should, and he's been in here every other day or so to complain."

"Does that mean you've used up all your tricks?"

"I don't know... ." Warner thought some more, then turned to his terminal and punched up the work files on HMS Warlock. He frowned at them, whistling tunelessly between his teeth as he paged through the screens of data, and Alexander possessed himself in all the patience he could manage.

"Well, now!" Warner murmured after several minutes. "That's interesting."

"What?"

"When Warlock first arrived, Young wanted a complete overhaul of her forward Warshawski tuners. In fact, he was pretty strident about it, but as you know, BuShips—meaning me, in this instance—has to sign off on anything that big." He looked up with a wicked grin, and Alexander smiled back with suddenly dancing eyes.

"And what was your decision, Admiral Warner?"

"I didn't give him one, Admiral Alexander. From what I can see here, he's good for another eight to ten months hyper time on the tuners he's got before he even approaches mandatory replacement wear. I refused to give him an answer mainly just to be a pain in his arrogant ass, but I doubt I'd authorize it, under normal circumstances, with that much time left on the components."

"Ah. But under these circumstances?"

"Why, I think I might just find it my heart to okay the work after all," Warner said generously.

"Good! But will he bite, do you think? I thought you said he's been in here trying to get you to expedite."

"Oh, he has. And I'm almost certain he'll say no thank you if I make him an offer at this point. But there are ways, Hamish. There are ways."

"Such as?"

"Well—" Warner switched off his terminal and turned back to his friend "—I think the first step will be to hold the good news that I've decided to authorize his requested work until the end of this watch. Young's been spending a lot of time dirt-side, hitting the Landing night spots while Commander Tankersley, his exec, does all the work—no love lost there, by the way—and while he's out bar-crawling, he leaves his com link home and lets his message service handle any calls. So if we give him time to clear out, then authorize the work, we'll have a full watch and a half, ten hours minimum, to hit our stride before he gets back. I imagine we'll have his Warshawski sails spread all over the slip before he knows a thing about it."

"Tankersley won't smell a rat and warn him?"

"As I said, there's no love lost between the two of them. Tankersley's a fairly decent sort. I don't think Young's attempt to shaft Harrington sits very well with him, and you can't be exec to a man like Young without getting to know exactly how useless he really is. Under the circumstances, I sort of doubt Young's explained his real motives to him, either, so Tankersley can play the uninformed but earnest exec to the hilt, if he wants to. I imagine he'll screen Young, all right, but probably only to leave a message with his service—and not one with any special priority." Warner tapped lightly on his desk for a moment, then nodded to himself. "Won't hurt to make sure, though. My aide's not just good looking; she's a very bright young woman, and she's been spending some off-duty time with Tankersley. That's one reason I figure he must be all right; Cindy wouldn't waste her time on him if he wasn't. Would it be all right if I have her mention to him that I'd appreciate his keeping his next progress report to Young a little vague?"

"We can't involve Jim or the Government, Craig," Alexander warned. "If you're wrong about him, you'll be the one it comes back to haunt."

"I don't think I am wrong, and I'm perfectly willing to run the risk for something like this. Hell, who needs a battle squadron? Carol would rather have me planet-side for good, anyway."

Warner spoke lightly, though both of them knew the loss of his next command or even half-pay was not merely possible but probable if any of this became official knowledge. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Warner smiled.

"Don't sweat it, Hamish. I'll pull it off. And once we get Warlock's forward hull opened up, I guarantee she won't leave dock for a good seven weeks. Long enough?"

"Long enough," Alexander agreed. "And thanks."

"Don't mention it. I never liked his father, either. And Carol will be delighted when she hears about this. North Hollow was after her before we were married, you know."

"No, I didn't. I wondered why you were so ready to dislike his son, though."

"Hell, that ancient history didn't have anything to do with that. Well, not much. This little creep is a disgrace to his uniform all on his own."

Warner sat for a moment longer, running through his plans, then nodded and stood.

"Well, that's that," he said with undisguised satisfaction. "And now, while I wait to put my nefarious plan into effect, why don't I give you that tour? Then we can finish up with supper in the flag officer's mess before you head back home."

"Sounds good to me," Alexander agreed, and the two admirals headed for the office hatch once more. "By the way, how are the kids?" he asked as they stepped through it. "I saw Carol last week, but we didn't have time to talk."

"Oh, they're fine. Sandra just made commander, and it looks like Bob's got a shot at ATC early. Keith and Fred are still in school, of course, and neither of them seems interested in the Navy, but—"

They walked down the passageway, chatting cheerfully.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Medusa was still the most boring looking planet she'd ever seen, Honor reflected, brooding over the main visual display once more, but it was beginning to seem appearances could be deceiving. She remembered something she'd read once, some ancient curse from Old Earth about living in "interesting times." It made much more sense now than it had when she first read it.

She hid a sigh, walked across to her chair, and eased herself into it without officially taking over the watch from McKeon. Her brain was busy.

Two days had passed since Hauptman's visit. Two whole days without a single new disaster, which was almost enough to make her skin crawl with anticipation. Not that there hadn't been "interesting" developments. Dame Estelle's sulfurous description of her interview with Countess Marisa's courier had been one. Honor had never imagined the genteel, composed Resident Commissioner could be so elementally enraged. Dame Estelle had looked ready to bite pieces out of the furniture, but as Honor had listened to her account of the meeting, she'd understood perfectly.

It seemed the Countess of New Kiev was feeling the heat from the financial community in general and, apparently, from the Hauptman Cartel in particular. From Dame Estelle's remarks, Honor was beginning to suspect that the big Manticoran merchant cartels had contributed rather more heavily to the Liberal Party's political coffers than she'd ever thought. The notion of an alliance between the parliamentary advocates of increased welfare spending and the captains of industry seemed a bit bizarre to Honor, but something was certainly giving them an awful lot of clout with the Opposition, for Countess Marisa had decided to turn the screws on Dame Estelle to propitiate them.

Honor had been astounded to learn from the commissioner that Countess Marisa had been told in unambiguous terms to keep her hands off the Navy's operations on Basilisk Station. That must have been a rude shock for her, Honor told herself with secret delight, and it reinforced her own suspicion that someone well up the chain of command approved of her actions. It was also, she reflected, the first time since the Basilisk Annexation that the Minister for Medusan Affairs had been told—rather bluntly, she gathered—that her authority ended at the outer edge of the planetary atmosphere. It was a long overdue assertion of the Fleet's authority and responsibility, although, given the officers and ships normally assigned here, she had little faith it would last.

But it was holding for now, and Countess Marisa didn't like it a bit. More, it sounded as if her authority even within her own planetary bailiwick had taken a beating.

Honor hadn't quite understood the gleam in the commissioner's eye once she stopped ranting and started speculating on the political situation back home. Of course, Honor didn't understand most of the machinations that went on inside the Parliament of Manticore. She vastly preferred the Navy, where the chain of command was at least generally clear, whatever infighting went on between factions and power groups. But Dame Estelle did seem to grasp the byzantine rules of the game, and she appeared convinced that something deep, complex, and probably drastic was going on beneath the surface ... and that whatever it was boded ill for Countess Marisa.

Honor could follow some of her reasoning, for as Dame Estelle had pointed out, Countess Marisa, as one of the leaders of the Opposition, held her present post only because the Ministry for Medusan Affairs was traditionally assigned to the Liberal Party as some sort of quid pro quo left over from the original, tortuous annexation fight in Parliament. But there were limits to how far from the Government line she could stray without losing her position, and it seemed she'd reached them, for her messenger had arrived in Dame Estelle's office with "suggestions," not directives.