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# Chapter Nineteen

"Take a look at this, Jordin."

Jordin Kare looked up from his own terminal and pivoted his work station chair in Dr. Richard Wix's direction. Wix was a strawberry blond, with a somewhat shaggy beard, a mustache several shades lighter than his hair, and quite a reputation as a hard-partying sort. Indeed, he rejoiced in the nickname "Tons of Joy Bear," although Kare wasn't quite sure where the "bear" part of it came in. On the other hand, when he wasn't establishing himself as the very soul of conviviality, Dr. Wix was also an extremely competent astrophysicist. Perhaps even more important, he possessed that unique intuitive sense which spotted data correlations almost more by feel than by analysis.

"What is it?" Kare asked.

"Well," Wix said with an air of calm, "I can't be certain of course, but unless I'm sadly mistaken, that last data run from Admiral Haynesworth's people just nailed down the entry vector."

"What?!" Kare was out of his chair and standing at Wix's shoulder, peering down at his display, without any conscious memory of having moved. "That's preposterous! There's no way! We don't even have a definitive locus yet—how the hell could we have an entry vector?"

"Because God works in mysterious ways?" Wix suggested.

"Oh, very funny, TJ," Kare half-snapped. He leaned closer to the display, then reached over Wix's shoulder and punched a command of his own into the data terminal. The display considered his question for a moment, then obligingly reconfigured, and Kare muttered a half-audible oath his rabbi would not have approved of.

"See?" Wix asked with an ever so slight air of complacency.

"I do, indeed," Kare said slowly, his eyes fixed on the display's vector arrows and the sidebar of tabular numerical data. He shook his head, unable to look away from the ridiculous figures. "You do realize how astronomical—you should pardon the expression—the odds against this are, don't you, TJ?"

"The thought did pass through my admittedly shallow mind," Wix agreed. "By my most conservative estimate, it should've taken us at least another six or seven months just to nail the locus, much less this." It was his turn to shake his head. "But there it is, Jordin." He waved at the display. "The grav eddies don't leave very much room for doubt, do they?"

"No. No, they don't," Kare replied. He straightened up and folded his arms, frowning as he contemplated the staggering implications of Wix's discovery. So far as he and Michel Reynaud knew, they'd kept any of their political overlords from realizing they were in hot pursuit of the Manticore Wormhole Junction's long-sought seventh terminus. But they weren't going to be able to sit on this news. As Wix said, they'd just cut a minimum of half a T-year off the search time—more like a full year, really. Which suggested that there might be a slight amount of hell to pay when the politicos discovered the hired help had been trying to keep them in the dark about the state of their progress.

On the other hand . . .

* * *

"This is tremendous news!" Countess New Kiev said exultantly, with what Baron High Ridge privately considered an unsurpassed talent for stating the obvious. Not that the Prime Minister supposed he should really hold that against the Chancellor of the Exchequer under the circumstances.

He had assembled a working group from the Cabinet in the secure conference room underneath the Prime Minister's residence. That room was buried under almost fifty meters of solid earth and ceramacrete, although every effort had been made to avoid any "bunker atmosphere." The furnishings were both expensive and elegant, from the deep pile carpet in the blue and silver of the House of Winton to the powered chairs around the huge conference table of hand-rubbed dark wood. One entire side of the large room was a programmable smart wall, whose holographic technology and nanotech had currently combined to create a breathtakingly realistic illusion that it was actually a window overlooking Jason Bay.

Yet despite all attempts to convince them otherwise, everyone in that conference room was well aware of how far beneath the surface they were . . . and of how impossible that made it for anyone to eavesdrop upon their conversation.

"I agree that this is fantastic news, of course, Marisa," Stefan Young said. "Obviously, the entire business community is going to be electrified by the possibility of still another Junction trade route, and as Trade Secretary, I'm delighted at the prospect. At the same time, the announcement could pose a few . . . difficulties."

"Not any insurmountable ones," High Ridge told him with a slight, quelling frown he was careful not to let New Kiev see. This wasn't the time to be reminding the countess of any trifling accounting irregularities where RMAIA was concerned. In fact, that was one reason he'd wanted Melina Makris assigned to Reynaud's staff. Makris knew exactly where her true loyalties lay, and as New Kiev's representative at the agency, she provided the perfect cutout between New Kiev and the actual bookkeeping. Which was a very good thing, given the way the countess' political conscience had of pricking her at the most unpredictable of times. It seemed to do it more over lesser matters than over greater ones, too. Personally, High Ridge suspected it was some sort of defensive mechanism. Perhaps her subconscious fixated on such minor matters because her pragmatism prevented it from reacting to any major sins of commission.

"Certainly not!" Elaine Descroix seconded enthusiastically. "This is the greatest discovery in decades—no, centuries! The Junction's been the biggest single factor in the Star Kingdom's prosperity; if its capacity increases, it will be the biggest boost our economy's had in almost a hundred T-years. And it's an agency we created which found a new terminus to make that possible."

"Of course," New Kiev said in a somewhat more down-to-earth tone, as if she found Descroix's complacent contemplation of political advantage distasteful, "we don't know where this terminus leads. The odds are against its connecting to any settled regions."

"The 'odds' were against the original Junction termini connecting to places like Beowulf or Trevor's Star," Descroix replied crisply.

"And even if it connects to completely unexplored space," North Hollow pointed out, "that's exactly what Basilisk was when we first discovered it. The opportunity for additional exploration and survey work alone would constitute a significant economic impetus."

"I'm certainly not trying to suggest that this isn't an enormously important discovery." New Kiev sounded just a bit defensive, High Ridge thought. "I'm only saying that until we know more—until we've actually sent a ship through and brought it home again after taking a look at the other end—no one can know just how important it will be. Especially in the short term."

"Agreed," High Ridge said, nodding sagely. "At the same time, Marisa, I'm sure you'll agree that news of this magnitude must be announced as promptly as possible?"

"Oh, of course. I didn't mean to suggest that it shouldn't. I'm only cautioning against making the news public in a way which feeds expectations we may be unable to satisfy in the long term."

"Of course not," High Ridge soothed. After all, there'd be no need to feed any expectations with official pronouncements. Private sector speculation would do the job just fine, and if it didn't do it on its own, there were enough think tanks which owed his Government favors. He was confident he could prime the pump without leaving any fingerprints if he had to.

"How soon will we be able to send a ship through?" Descroix asked.

"We're not positive," High Ridge admitted. "The reports from Admiral Reynaud and Dr. Kare are filled with a lot of qualifications. It's obvious to me that there's an element of covering their backsides to it, but I suppose that's to be expected, and it would be unwise to try to override them. They've both stressed that no one could have predicted—or, at least, that no one did predict—a fundamental discovery of such magnitude. According to their reports, they more or less stumbled onto the critical observational data, and they both insist that it's going to take some time to refine their current rough figures. Apparently, they have the approach vector for this end of the new terminus fairly well defined, but they say they're going to have to send quite a few probes in to test their data to be sure there are no glitches in their numbers. And they also want to study telemetry from the probes on the transit itself. According to Reynaud, without that, and especially without the transit readings, they can't project a survey ship's required helm data with sufficient accuracy to assure a safe transit. Until they can do that, they're both on record as opposing the dispatch of any manned vessel."

"It sounds to me like they're scared of their own shadows," Descroix said roundly, with a scathing edge of contempt.

"And it sounds to me," New Kiev said sharply, "as if they're concerned about the possible loss of life unnecessary haste could cause! We've gotten along just fine with only six Junction termini for centuries, Elaine—we can wait another few months to explore a seventh one."

Descroix bristled angrily at the countess's tone, and High Ridge intervened hastily.

"I'm sure no one in this room wants to run any unnecessary risks with the lives of our survey people, Marisa. On the other hand, I can certainly understand Elaine's sense of impatience. The sooner we can survey this new Junction route, the sooner the Star Kingdom's economy can begin to profit from it. And although it may seem just a trifle on the calculating side, I don't think any fair-minded person could fault us for taking a degree of credit for the discovery." He held New Kiev's eyes steadily. "After all, the discovery was made by an agency which this Government created and funded—against, I might add, quite strong opposition from Alexander and his crowd. And just as a government takes the blame for things which go wrong on its watch, whether those problems stem from its decisions or policies or not, it's fair for a government to take credit for things which go right."

"Of course it is," the countess conceded. "I think it's important we not be overly strident in telling everyone that the credit for this discovery belongs entirely to us, but someone is going to get the political capital that comes out of it, and that someone clearly ought to be us. I'm simply saying that even from a purely political perspective, it would be most unwise of us to push Admiral Reynaud into any exploratory activity he thinks would be premature. If we do, and if lives are lost, we'll get the 'credit' for that, too."

"You certainly have a point there," High Ridge agreed, and cocked an eyebrow at Descroix. "Elaine?"

"Oh, certainly we don't need to be losing any lives unnecessarily," the Foreign Secretary said peevishly. "But by the same token, I don't see anything wrong with turning the pressure up a little bit on Reynaud and Kare. I'm not proposing that we override them, but knowing the Government is strongly committed to moving forward as quickly as possible could help to . . . focus their attention a bit more firmly on ways to expedite matters safely."

New Kiev seemed to hover on the brink of yet another sharp reply, but she subsided after another glance from High Ridge.

"Excellent," the Prime Minister said briskly. "In that case, I think we're in agreement on how to proceed with exploration. For right now, however, we also need to consider precisely how—and when—we'll make the announcement. My own thought is that we need to announce it as quickly as possible. The question in my mind is whether we should do it through Clarence or through an RMAIA news conference. Opinions?"

"Clarence" was Sir Clarence Oglesby, High Ridge's long-time public relations director and currently the official press secretary for the High Ridge Government.

"We should release the news through Clarence," Descroix said instantly.

"I don't know about that," New Kiev said almost as promptly. "The RMAIA would be the logical avenue for the initial announcement. Wouldn't it seem like we were making a blatant grab for publicity if the Government's press secretary 'stole their thunder'?"

"I do trust, Marisa," Descroix said with a thin smile, "that you don't object to our taking at least some small official notice of this insignificant little event?"

New Kiev opened her mouth angrily, but High Ridge intervened once more.

"Marisa never said that, Elaine," he said firmly, and stared her down when she seemed disposed to reply sharply. He could do that with Descroix. Unlike New Kiev, she was unlikely ever to allow principle to conflict with ambition, and she understood the finer points of manipulation, whether of the electorate or her cabinet colleagues, in a way New Kiev never would.

"Personally," he continued once he was certain his Foreign Secretary wasn't going to pour more hydrogen on his Chancellor of the Exchequer's anger, "I think there's some merit to both suggestions. The fact that this is a scientific discovery certainly suggests that the scientific agency which made it ought to announce it. But it's also a major political event, with implications for the entire Star Kingdom, beginning with the financial sector, no doubt, but certainly not limited to it. So I think the proper way to proceed would be for Admiral Reynaud to announce a press conference, at which the news of his discovery would be made public, and which Clarence would also attend in the role of moderator. That would put him in position to address the political and economic implications of the discovery as well as being sure that the scientists who actually made it get full credit for their work."

He smiled brightly around the conference table, pleased with his compromise, and New Kiev nodded. Descroix's agreement was a bit more grudging, but it came anyway, and his smile grew broader.

"Excellent!" he said once more. "In that case, I'll have Clarence contact Admiral Reynaud immediately to arrange it. Now, about those new shipbuilding subsidies you wanted to recommend, Marisa. It seems to me . . ."

* * *

"It's good to see you home again, Honor!" Rear Admiral Alistair McKeon said feelingly as Honor walked into the flag briefing room aboard HMS Werewolf. He and Alice Truman had reached Honor's new flagship before the Paul Tankersley's shuttle made rendezvous with her. Mercedes Brigham had arrived with Honor, and Rafael Cardones and Captain Andrea Jaruwalski had met them in the boat bay and accompanied them to the briefing room.

"Rafe and Alice and I have managed to keep things moving, more or less," McKeon went on as he reached out to grip her hand firmly. "But no one at the Admiralty seems to have the least sense of urgency about all of this, and I think we need someone a little more senior to kick ass over there!"

"If it's all the same to you, Alistair," she said mildly, squeezing his hand back, "I'd prefer to spend at least—oh, an hour or two, perhaps—getting my bags unpacked before I go over to do battle with Admiral Draskovic and the First Space Lord."

"Sorry." He grimaced, then grinned lopsidedly. "It's just that I've never been at my best dealing with bureaucrats. And to be completely honest, it seems to me that some of them are deliberately dragging their feet this time around."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised if Alistair's suspicions are justified," Dame Alice Truman put in, reaching out to shake Honor's hand in turn. Her own smile was genuine but carried a decidedly sour edge. "I don't know exactly what you did to Draskovic to make her sign off on your staff and command selections, but I suspect we'd be getting considerably more—and prompter—cooperation out of the Admiralty if you'd picked a slate that was in somewhat better odor with the Powers That Be. Starting with your choice for your second in command."

"Starting with the station commander herself, you mean, Ma'am," Jaruwalski put in. The dark, hawk-faced captain had come a long way from the defensive, half-defeated woman who'd once been branded with responsibility for the Seaford Nine disaster, and she met Honor's sharp look with a sardonic smile.

"That might not be exactly the most diplomatic possible thing to say, Andrea," Honor observed, and her new ops officer shrugged.

"One thing I've already learned about trying to work with the new management at the Admiralty, Your Grace—we're never going to get anything done if we count on Admiralty House to do it for us. And with all due respect, Ma'am, you know that as well as we do. So we might as well be open about it here 'in the family,' don't you think?"

"You're probably right," Honor conceded after a moment, then shrugged and turned back to McKeon. "We'll have to sit down and discuss exactly where we are now that Mercedes and I are back from Grayson," she told him. "And if it looks like there's something we need that I can get the Admiralty to move on, then I'll certainly use whatever size stick it requires. But if it's something we can take care of ourselves, even if we have to go through back channels to do it, then I'd prefer to avoid any more . . . Admiralty interviews that I can."

"I can understand that," he agreed. "And I suppose it wouldn't hurt any for the rest of us to carry as much of the weight as we can instead of consigning you to Admiralty House's tender mercies."

"I wouldn't put it quite that way myself—even 'here in the family,' " Honor replied. "But in general, it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to keep me in reserve whenever we can rather than squandering whatever clout I have. Speaking of which," she continued her interrupted trip to the chair at the head of the briefing room table and sat down, moving Nimitz from her shoulder to her lap, "where, exactly, are we?"

"About two weeks behind your projected timetable," Truman responded. Honor looked at her with one raised eyebrow, and the golden-haired rear admiral shrugged. "Hephaestus turned Werewolf loose ahead of schedule, and Rafe and Scotty have done really well at working up her LAC group. We're at least a week behind on assembling the rest of the carrier force, though, and until we get all of the CLACs and all of the LACs gathered in one place, it's going to be impossible to form any judgments on the LAC groups as a whole. I doubt they'll be fully up to Werewolf's standards, but that would be true of just about anyone they could send us. Scotty's LAC jocks could use as much additional exercise time as we can steal for them, but at least two-thirds of them are veterans, and in my opinion, they're shaping up very nicely. Would you agree, Alistair?"

"It's certainly looks that way to me," McKeon confirmed.

"I see." Honor nodded and glanced at Jaruwalski. "And that other project we discussed, Andrea?"

"That much is on schedule, Your Grace," Jaruwalski assured her. "The data is tucked away as per instructions, and Commander Reynolds and I have already had a few thoughts about it. We're not quite ready to share them yet, but I don't think you'll be disappointed."

"Good." Honor smiled thinly. It was a strangely hungry smile, but it became broader and warmer as she tasted the puzzlement of her senior subordinates. Well, there would be time enough to enlighten them later. She didn't expect any of them to have any objections at all to the little side project she'd codenamed Operation Wilberforce. But given the . . . sensitive nature of the intelligence data which would make Wilberforce possible, she preferred to restrict the details to the smallest possible circle until they were safely in Silesia.

"So you think the LAC crews are going to be up to snuff by the time we reach Sidemore?" she asked, turning her attention back to Truman, and her second in command raised one hand and waggled it back and forth in a maybe-maybe not gesture.

"I think they ought to be," she said. "I'm confident that they'll be up to Scotty's standards eventually, but I won't absolutely guarantee that 'eventually' will happen before we reach our station."

"You're the LAC expert here, Alice," McKeon said, "but I think you may be being a bit overly pessimistic. To me, they look like they're already starting to shape up nicely from what I've seen in the sims. But what do I know? As I understand it, Her Grace," he grinned at Honor, "asked me along to ride herd on the old-fashioned side of things."

"Not all that old-fashioned," Honor demurred.

"More old-fashioned than you may have thought, Ma'am," Jaruwalski said sourly. She grimaced when Honor glanced at her. "The latest from Admiral Chakrabarti's office is that we're going to have to leave one of our squadrons of Medusas here with Home Fleet. They're going to give us two squadrons of the pre-pod types, instead. And according to my sources, at least two of the non-pod ships are going to be dreadnoughts, not superdreadnoughts."

"Only two squadrons?" Mercedes Brigham demanded, and turned to face Honor. "I know you warned me they were being tight about turning tonnage loose, Your Grace, but that's ridiculous! There's no way two squadrons of pre-pod ships equate to a single squadron of SD(P)s!"

"No, there isn't," Honor agreed with massive restraint. Privately, she wondered if it was possible that some of Benjamin's apprehensions about the Republic of Haven might finally have begun to percolate through what passed for the brain of ONI. She reminded herself that she still had to bring William Alexander and Elizabeth up to speed on all of Benjamin's concerns . . . including Erewhon's possible intentions. But at the moment, that was secondary to her own immediate concerns, and she certainly couldn't think of any other reason to reduce the ships being sent off to deter the Andermani so severely. If the new force levels held up, the Admiralty would be giving her task force only one squadron of SD(P)s. Admittedly, there would be eighteen older-style superdreadnoughts—or dreadnoughts, if Andrea is right, she corrected herself—to back them, plus the two weak battle squadrons already on station under Admiral Hewitt. And it was also true that six of the new ships ought to be capable of destroying an entire fleet of the older types all by themselves, but it still seemed like a foolhardy move.

Should I tell them about the Protector's Own? she wondered. There was no real reason she shouldn't . . . except that she and Benjamin had agreed that no one would be told—except Alfredo Yu himself—until the Grayson ships actually reached Silesia. The Protector had decided upon more mature consideration that the simplest way to avoid potential domestic arguments over his decision was simply not to tell anyone about it. As far as the rest of the Navy and the Grayson population at large were concerned, the Protector's Own was merely being dispatched on an extended deep-space training cruise, accompanied by its organic support ships. The primary purpose was to demonstrate its ability to sustain itself out of its own logistic resources in long-distance, independent operations. The fact that its training cruise would just happen to take the entire Protector's Own to the star system where its official commander just happened to have been stationed by the RMN would just happen to be one of those happy coincidences which just happened to happen from time to time.

Besides, as Wesley Matthews had pointed out when his opinion was sought, if someone like Sir Edward Janacek or Simon Chakrabarti knew Grayson was planning to make up the difference in the force levels Honor would require, their response almost certainly would be to see it as an opportunity to reduce the purely Manticoran forces available to her even further. Which analysis took on an additional point in the wake of Jaruwalski's news.

No, she decided. It's not really fair for me to tell them when Benjamin won't even be telling his own people about it. And even though it may not be very nice of me, if I don't tell them about it, it'll probably encourage them to try even harder to make what we do officially have adequate. Besides, she hid a sudden mental grin, think what a pleasant surprise it will be for them when Alfredo turns up in Marsh. Assuming, of course, that they don't decide to lynch the admiral who didn't warn them he was coming!

"Well," she said aloud, "we'll just have to find a way to get along without them, I suppose, won't we?"

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