She waved at the discreet weather domes which simultaneously protected the powerful weapon emplacements around the Winton family’s official home from the elements and concealed them from the casual eye.
“Short of a planetary invasion, no one’s likely to crash this particular party,” she pointed out dryly.
“No,” Elizabeth agreed, watching the shuttle settle the last few meters. “And if I were really worried, I wouldn’t be standing here joking about it. But you do have to admit this is turning into the highest voltage summit meeting in the Star Kingdom’s—much less the Star Empire’s—history, and we’re making the entire thing up as we go along. We heads of state really prefer to have some sort of an agenda before we sit down at the high-stakes table, you know. All bad novelists notwithstanding, surprise and improvisation are not the best basis for successful diplomacy!”
“Oh, trust me, I do know,” Honor said. “Although organizationally speaking, at least, you’ve got it easier than some of the people involved, Elizabeth. Poor Arethea looks just about ready to drop!”
“I know!” Elizabeth chuckled, smiling fondly.
Dame Arethea Hart, Countess Middlehill, was Elizabeth’s senior seneschal. As such, she was responsible for the planning and execution of all major state functions under Lord Chamberlin Jacob Wundt’s general direction, and she’d taken on a distinctly harried look.
“I agree we’re wearing her out,” Elizabeth continued, “but she’s having the time of her life, too, Honor. And now she gets to manage the Protector of Grayson’s first ever extra-system state visit?” The two women looked at each other. “The only thing she’s looking forward to more than this is Roger and Rivka’s wedding, and you know it!”
“All right, I’ll grant that. But I still say she looks worn to a frazzle.”
Elizabeth started to respond, then stopped as the shuttle’s hatch slid open.
The pad was surrounded by Palace Security and the Queen’s Own Regiment of the Royal Manticoran Army. In addition, Grayson Palace Security and the Protector’s Guard were heavily represented, as well. The Grayson advance party, preceding Benjamin’s shuttle by six hours, had linked up smoothly with Colonel Shemais’ personnel. Now, as the hatch opened, a square-shouldered, weathered looking major with graying red hair stepped out. He looked around quickly, taking in every detail of the security arrangements, then moved to one side and came to attention.
Benjamin Mayhew stepped past the major, followed by Katherine and Elaine Mayhew, and Elizabeth felt a sudden pang. It was only seven T-years since her state visit to Grayson, yet Benjamin was perceptibly grayer. He stood just as straight as she remembered, but there were more lines on his face, and she wondered if it was only her imagination that he moved a bit more slowly.
He’s six years younger than I am, she thought. Thirteen years younger than Honor. But he looks older than either of us.
It was true. In fact, looking at Benjamin and Honor side-by-side, anyone from a pre-prolong society would have thought the age differential was reversed…and twice what it actually was.
For a moment, as she was brought face-to-face with the awareness that Benjamin Mayhew had never received prolong, she felt a presentiment of loss to come. The loss not simply of a valuable political ally, of a trusted military ally, but of someone who’d become a personal friend. Somehow, despite the regular messages they exchanged, despite the exchanged Christmas and birthday gifts, the personal recordings which had nothing at all to do with state occasions, her inner image of him hadn’t really changed until she saw him here, on these familiar grounds, in person.
Oh, stop that! she told herself. Yes, you’re going to lose him…eventually. And you’ve always known—you’ve both always known—you were. But it’s not going to happen tomorrow, and the last thing he needs—the last thing either of you need—is you getting all maudlin! Besides, she glanced sideways, quickly, at Honor, there are people who’re going to miss him even more than you are when that finally happens.
Honor seemed unaware of that quick scrutiny, although Elizabeth knew better.
“I think we should go meet our guests, Your Grace,” she said.
“I think that’s an excellent idea, Your Majesty,” Honor agreed.
* * *
“And just who’s minding the store back home while you gallivant around the galaxy?” Elizabeth asked the better part of an hour later.
“Floyd has things under control, I’m sure,” Benjamin replied, waving his iced tea glass cheerfully. “I won’t say he was delighted with my decision to go traipsing off, but the way I see it, it’s good practice for him.”
Elizabeth hadn’t personally met Floyd Kellerman, the Chancellor of Grayson, but she’d exchanged quite a few messages with him, and William Alexander had met him. On that basis, she suspected Benjamin was rather understating Kellerman’s reaction. The Protector had chosen him as Chancellor because of his native ability, but he wasn’t quite forty yet, and some of Grayson’s more senior steadholders tried to bully him into doing things their way…especially if they thought Benjamin might not notice.
“Saying Floyd wasn’t ‘delighted’ is something of an understatement, dear,” Katherine Mayhew pointed out dryly, confirming Elizabeth’s suspicions. “I think he was of the odd opinion that things like negotiating treaties with allies is the reason you have a Foreign Minister.”
“Such a stodgy, conventional attitude.” Benjamin shook his head mournfully. “Besides, Uriah’s busy.”
“Oh?” Elizabeth cocked her head. She had met Brother Uriah Madison, the Grayson priest Reverend Jeremiah Sullivan had personally recommended to Benjamin when Lord Berilynko, the previous foreign minister, retired, and she’d been impressed with him. “I wondered why you sent Michael to initial the draft agreements instead of Brother Madison. Is this one of those things another head of state can ask about, or should I remain tactfully incurious?”
“Actually,” Benjamin said, “I sent Michael instead of Uriah for two reasons. One was that given the potential objections some of the more recalcitrant Keys are bound to nurse about concluding peace with someone we’ve been fighting for so long, I wanted a Mayhew personally involved in the treaty process. We’re still a very traditional people, Elizabeth, and the Mayhew name carries weight. With Mike’s signature on the treaty, it’s going to take a particularly hardy steadholder to oppose ratification.”
“I can see that.” Elizabeth nodded. The Winton Dynasty had been known to use family members as plenipotentiaries for much the same reasons. For that matter, that was precisely what she’d done, in a way, by sending Honor to negotiate with Haven.
“And, secondly,” Benjamin continued, “given the, um, rapidity with which events seem to be moving, I needed Uriah to talk to someone else.” His eyes met Elizabeth’s. “From a few ‘purely exploratory’ feelers which have been extended my way, I think Walter Imbessi might like to mend some fences. And since we appear to be in the process of fence-mending in general, I thought it might not be a bad idea to see just what he had in mind.” He smiled faintly. “Which, of course, puts everyone involved in what I suppose we might call a delicate position.”
“I can see where you could put it that way,” Elizabeth said dryly.
She sat back, frowning thoughtfully while she considered her response. Walter Imbesi was not, to put it mildly, universally beloved in the Star Empire, given his role in the Republic of Erewhon’s withdrawal from the Manticoran Alliance. Not to mention the mutual defense treaty Erewhon had then signed with the Republic of Haven…just in time for the war between Manticore and Haven to start up again. No Manticoran (including Elizabeth Winton) doubted that the technical exchanges which had accompanied that defense treaty explained quite a bit of Haven’s technological improvements since the shooting had resumed, which was the reason Manticore had hammered the Erewhonese with massive trade penalties. At the same time, the Star Empire had permitted Erewhon (which had declared neutrality during the current hostilities, since Haven had r
einitiated them without being attacked first) to continue using the Junction and even trading with the Star Empire itself.
Which, she admitted, was mainly to keep the door open a crack. A point of which anyone as sharp as Imbesi has to’ve been aware.
“So you really think he wants to—how did you put it? ‘Mend fences’?” she asked.
“I think he never really wanted them in such disrepair in the first place, actually.” Mayhew’s tone was serious. “Let’s face it, Elizabeth. From Erewhon’s perspective, and especially without knowing hostilities were about to resume…”
He shrugged, and Elizabeth nodded.
“I know.” She sighed. “I never blamed Erewhon as much as a lot of other Manticorans did. It was High Ridge’s fault, and I know you were warning Descroix the whole time about where their so-called foreign policy was leading. So was I, for that matter! I even know Imbesi was pissed off as hell when Pritchart went back to shooting at us. That still isn’t going to make it easy for Erewhon and the Star Empire to do some kind of sweetness and light kiss-and-make-up!”
“Granted. And unless I’m mistaken, that’s not what Imbesi has in mind, exactly, either.”
“No?” She raised an eyebrow. “Then what does he have in mind?”
“Obviously, there wasn’t much time for back-and-forth exchanges before I climbed aboard ship to come visit you,” Benjamin pointed out. “You know Havlicek, Hall, and Fuentes have been using Imbesi as their theoretically unofficial point man with both Haven and Congo, though. My impression is that someone in Haven—or possibly Congo—dropped a partial summary of what Captain Zilwicki and Agent Cachat brought back from Mesa on their friends in Maytag, and I think the Triumvirate’s concluded that this corner of the galaxy’s about to get a lot lonelier and more dangerous. They don’t want to be caught out in the cold, so they’ve reached for their ‘unofficial’ go-to guy to do something about that.”
“I said I don’t blame them as much as a lot of Manticorans do. That doesn’t mean I’m feeling especially fond of them. On a personal level, at least, the thought of their catching a chill doesn’t exactly break my heart.”
“Trust me, the same thought crossed my mind.” Benjamin smiled thinly. As Manticore’s major military ally, the Grayson Space Navy had taken its own losses at the hands of improved Havenite combat capabilities. “As you say, though, that was on a personal level.”
“I know.” Elizabeth grimaced. “And we’ve had our own unofficial interface with them through Congo and Torch all along. It’s not as if we don’t have any common ground anymore. That’s why I proposed Torch as the site for that summit meeting Eloise and I were going to have before the assassination attempt. For that matter, Erewhon’s backing for Torch is bound to attract this Alignment’s attention in its direction, isn’t it?”
“True. And then”—Benjamin glanced casually around, as if reassuring himself even here that no one but Katherine was close enough to overhear them—“there’s Smoking Frog.”
Elizabeth looked at him for a moment, then nodded.
“Point taken,” she said quietly. “And I won’t pretend I wouldn’t like…a little more insight into Barregos’ plans, let’s say. Not to mention the fact that an, ah, understanding with the Maya Sector would do quite a bit for our own security on that flank. For that matter, Maya has to be even higher on Mesa’s list than Erewhon, after the Battle of Congo!”
“Exactly what I was thinking. And I don’t doubt Imbesi’s thinking the same way. Among other things, the man’s almost terminally pragmatic. He’d have to see the possibility of brokering a relationship between us and Maya as a way of getting back onto acceptable terms with all of us.”
Benjamin had that right, Elizabeth reflected. When it came down to it, no one in the galaxy was more pragmatic than the Erewhonese. Except, of course, that all the pragmatism in the universe didn’t change that inflexible Erewhonese view that a deal was a deal—the very attitude which had led to so much anger on Erewhon’s part when the High Ridge Government chose to effectively ignore its responsibilities to its allies.
“When they sign on, they do have a tendency to stay signed, don’t they?” she said out loud, and Benjamin nodded.
“More than some star nations I could mention, anyway,” he said. “Speaking of which, how are the Andermani taking all of this?”
Elizabeth gave him a pained look.
“That wasn’t the most diplomatic segue in the history of statesmanship, Benjamin.”
“That’s the sort of thing I keep professionals like Uriah around for,” he replied. “And you’ll notice I’m asking you personally, not any members of the formal diplomatic corps.”
“Yes, I did notice.” She eyed him repressively for another second or two, then smiled crookedly. “Obviously I haven’t had time for a formal exchange of views with Gustav, but judging from his ambassador’s reaction and that of the Andermani officers still attached to Eighth Fleet, I think he’s a lot less likely to bolt the Alliance than he would have been before we told him about this killer nanotech. All our analyses of New Potsdam’s internal dynamic suggest Prince Huang and Herzog von Rabenstrange have been the closest thing the Andermani court has to Manticoran partisans. In Huang’s case it was always a more pragmatic and tactical stance than any great love for us, of course. In fact, I’m inclined to think it was more the intensity of his abolitionist leanings than his pro-Manticore tendencies that got him onto the Mesan hit list. Still, I doubt the notion that Mesa tried to kill him—and did manage to kill his younger son—is going to make him any less pro-Ballroom! And while Gustav’s never been as intensely opposed to genetic slavery as Huang, he’s not the sort to take kindly to the murder of his nephew, either.”
“None of which is to say our pragmatic friends are going to be eager to stand up to the Solarian juggernaut with us, no matter how pissed off they may be at Mesa,” Benjamin observed.
“No,” Elizabeth agreed, and smiled very coldly. “But if this Filareta gets hammered, someone like Gustav’s going to be thinking about the desirability of being on the winning side. Personally, I’ve never really had any imperial ambitions. In fact, I’d just as soon never have embarked on something that’s almost certain to change the entire character of the Old Star Kingdom the way this sudden expansion is going to. But I’m not a descendant of Gustav Anderman, either, and the Andermani do think in imperial terms.”
“I know,” Benjamin said soberly. “That’s why I have to wonder how Gustav’s going to feel about finding himself squeezed between the Star Empire’s lobes in Silesia and the Talbott Quadrant.”
“Hopefully, that’s not going to be an issue anytime soon. Not that it isn’t damned well going to become one sometime.” Elizabeth sighed. “I’d really like things to be simple and straightforward without automatically involving all sorts of future repercussions. Just once, at least.”
“Would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Benjamin grinned and shook his head. “Not going to happen, though. Trust me. You young whippersnapper monarchy-come-latelies have no idea! Four and a half centuries—ha!” He snapped his fingers. “Wait until you’ve been around for a thousand T-years, like us Mayhews. You’ll be amazed by all the chances you’ll have had to screw up by forgetting about those ‘future repercussions’ at inconvenient moments!”
Chapter Sixteen
“Incoming message from Admiral Truman, Your Grace!” Lieutenant Commander Harper Brantley announced.
“Throw it on Display Two,” Honor said without ever taking her eyes from the main plot.
Nimitz pressed his nose against her cheek with a confident, buzzing purr, but the icons on that plot were getting decidedly complicated. Her Ghost Rider platforms updated the data on the intruding Solarian fleet, and she frowned at the hurricane of MDMs which had erupted from Eighth Fleet’s missile pods eighteen seconds ago. The massive salvo streaked towards the glaring red codes of the enemy, and her frown deepened as Admiral Filareta’s ships spawned an answering cloud of tiny ruby chips. r />
“Yes, Alice?” she said as Truman’s larger-than-life, golden-haired image appeared on the display which had just opened in the plot’s upper quadrant.
“My advanced LACs and the recon platforms all confirm the bastards are towing pods, Honor,” she said without preamble, her expression somewhere between irritated, exasperated, and just plain pissed off.
“Yes, CIC just put them up on the plot.” Honor’s tone was considerably calmer than Truman’s. “And they just launched from them,” she continued. “Which I doubt they’d be doing at twenty million kilometers if they didn’t have the range for it.
“Enemy launch at one-point-three light-minutes!” Captain Andrea Jaruwalski, Honor’s operations officer, reported crisply, as if to confirm Honor’s statement. Jaruwalski was looking at her own displays. “Acceleration approximately forty-eight thousand KPS, Your Grace. Assuming constant acceleration, time of flight is five-point-two minutes. CIC makes their closing velocity at the inner defense perimeter approximately point-four-niner cee!”
That was actually a bit better—about 2,000 KPS better, in fact—than the RMN’s own Mark 23 could do, Honor reflected. Obviously, the same thought had occurred to Truman, as well.
“Damn it, that’s ridiculous!” the other admiral snapped.
“Which doesn’t mean it isn’t happening,” Honor pointed out.
“But—” Truman stopped herself, then gave her head a shake.
“Point taken,” she conceded more calmly.
Honor smiled, but it was a thin smile, and her eyes had already moved back to the plot. Five minutes wasn’t much time to be making changes, yet if the Sollies’ missile acceleration exceeded projections by this much, there was no telling how much better their targeting systems and penaids might be, as well.