“What’s the status of the survivor?”

  “We don’t know there is a survivor yet.” Badilotti’s excitement waned visibly. “All the Bosun’s got so far is the beacon. He says there’s no telemetry, or if there is, it’s not getting through, anyway. He’s working on it.”

  “Understood.”

  Neitz inhaled. No wonder Badilotti’s initial exhilaration had faded. Skinsuit beacons were designed to be incredibly powerful, but suit telemetry channels were shorter-ranged and considerably weaker. If the wreckage around it had been sufficient to block it for so long, it was entirely possible there was telemetry and it just couldn’t get through.

  But it was far, far more likely that no telemetry was getting through because there was no one—no one alive, at least—inside the suit in question.

  “Stay on it, David,” he said after a moment. “And tell Bosun Lochen to keep us informed. I know he will, anyway, but, God, I could use some good news for a change.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Badilotti said. “We all could.”

  George Benton Tower

  City of Old Chicago

  Old Earth

  Sol System

  “Well, so much for our wonderful secret weapon,” Malachai Abruzzi said bitterly. “How the hell am I supposed to sell this as the ‘decisive victory’ we needed?”

  “It’s not a complete disaster,” Nathan MacArtney objected. “It looks like Hasta worked perfectly. If they’d seen it coming before the last stage lit off, they’d’ve stopped any of them from getting through, and they didn’t.”

  “Oh, that makes it much better,” Abruzzi half-sneered. “Now you’re telling me I’m supposed to tell the public we fired off twelve hundred of these wonderful new missiles, the other side didn’t even see them coming until the last second, and we still managed to take out one—count them, Nathan: one—of our eleven primary objectives.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’m pretty good. Hell, I could sell ice on Niflheim! I don’t think I can sell this, though.”

  “No one expects miracles, Malachai,” Innokentiy Kolokoltsov told him. “We’ll just have to do the best we can with what we’ve got.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Abruzzi muttered. Then he shook himself. “I really, really need Kingsford to give me something to work with.”

  “I’m sure he will. As soon as he can.”

  Abruzzi snorted, but he also sat back in his chair, arms folded, and Kolokoltsov tried to be grateful for small mercies.

  Fabius had been almost as big a disaster as Kingsford had privately warned him it might. Unlike the CNO’s worst-case assumption—based on discovering that the Manties’ FTL system defense missiles were already fully operational—almost ten percent of Vincent Capriotti’s battlecruisers had survived. SLNS Québec had not been one of them, however, and the remnants of TF 790 had reached Sol less than eleven hours ago. So far, no one outside the Navy—and the Mandarins—knew they had or had any idea the Solarian League had once again suffered catastrophic losses.

  It would be a while before Kingsford could provide any sort of comprehensive after-action report or meaningful analysis of the attack’s results. Without Capriotti—or, for that matter, any of the task group flagships—just pulling together the sensor data was likely to take days. What he called the “hot wash” analysis suggested Abruzzi’s dismal summary of Capriotti’s accomplishments was likely to hold up, though. Kingsford’s face had been bitter on Kolokoltsov’s com display as he described the impeller wedges which had interposed themselves between the Hastas and their targets.

  “We’d have gotten better results going after something farther from the planet,” the CNO had said heavily. “We didn’t expect that wall of impeller wedges, and we had to be so careful about our targeting commands to avoid civilian casualties that the birds’ tactical options were too limited to work around and get behind them, between them and the planet, for an unobstructed shot. We did find that one hole, and it looks like we probably killed at least a dozen of the ships they were using—more likely twice that many—but if I had to guess, they were freighters. Probably unmanned freighters—drones. So aside from the nano farm, I think it’s likely we didn’t get another damned thing. I’m sorry, Mister Senior Permanent Undersecretary. My people tried.”

  Yes, they did, Admiral, Kolokoltsov thought now. And a hell of a lot of them died trying. But Malachai’s right. We can’t sell this as the win we needed.

  “Anything more on that ‘data anomaly,’?” MacArtney asked.

  “No.” Kolokoltsov shrugged. “Kingsford says his people at Operational Analysis are working on it, but so far ‘data anomaly’ is as far as they’ve gotten.” He shrugged again. “Frankly, I think Kingsford’s pretty much of the opinion that it’s a sensor glitch. Only two of Capriotti’s recon drones even think they saw it…whatever it was.”

  “Good,” Abruzzi said with bitter amusement. “At least I won’t have to explain that one away. Last thing we need is for people to think the Manties are still producing new ‘secret weapons.’ Especially when ours all seem to suck wind.”

  “I have to say,” Omosupe Quartermain put in, her tone as subdued—and anxious—as her expression, “that I’m a lot more worried about how the Manties are going to react to this than I am about what we tell the newsies.”

  Trust Omosupe to cut to the chase, Kolokoltsov reflected. And she had a point. The attack on Beowulf had upped the ante all around, and it was unlikely the Manties were very pleased about it. Still, there were a few glimmers in the darkness.

  Even from Kingsford’s current, partial analysis, it was obvious MacArtney was right: the Manties had never even seen Hasta coming until the final stages went active. That meant the weapon had performed almost exactly as advertised. If not for the freighters they’d managed to interpose, the strike would have been just as devastating as anyone could have hoped, and the fact that at least some of their technology had worked perfectly—that the Manties’ monopoly on superior weapons wasn’t absolute, after all—was at least a little reassuring. According to Kingsford and Vice Admiral Kindrick, Systems Development Command and Technodyne were working on half a dozen other projects which should begin yielding results sometime within the next eight to twelve T-months. How good those results would be was an unknown, but if Hasta was representative, they might just provide a genuine equalizer, especially if they were employed en masse.

  And the preliminary vote on the taxation amendment went our way overwhelmingly, Kolokoltsov reminded himself. If Neng and Tyrone Reid are right, it’ll sail through on the final vote week after next, too. If that happens, we’ll have all the money we need to buy anything Systems Development wants! We just have to hang on long enough for that to happen, and the Manties are frigging history!

  He reminded himself of that firmly—very firmly. And somewhere under that reassurance, he heard the lonely sound of whistling in a cemetery.

  CNO’s Office

  Admiralty Building

  City of Old Chicago

  Old Earth

  Sol System

  The com pinged.

  Winston Kingsford snarled at the sound. He’d left strict orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed by anybody short of Innokentiy Kolokoltsov himself while he tried to make sense out of the confused reports from TF 790’s survivors. And since he’d just finished speaking to Kolokoltsov twenty minutes ago—and since if anyone in the entire Sol System understood why he needed to be left alone to get on with it, that someone had to be Kolokoltsov—he rather doubted this was the Permanent Senior Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs.

  Which meant whoever was pinging his com was about to acquire a new anal orifice.

  It pinged again, and he stabbed the acceptance key angrily.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Excuse me, Admiral,” Chief Petty Officer Chernova said. She’d been Kingsford’s personal yeoman for well over ten T-years, and she sounded remarkably calm in the face of his obvious displeasure.

  “I said, ‘no interruptions,’ Marilis,” he pointed out ominously.

  “Yes, Admiral. I know. But Brigadier Gaddis insists on speaking to you.”

  “Gaddis?” Kingsford blinked. “You mean Simeon Gaddis—the Gendarme?”

  “Yes, Sir. He says it’s urgent. A matter of life and death.”

  Kingsford started to refuse. He couldn’t imagine anything that might be “life-and-death” to the Gendarmerie that didn’t come a piss-poor second to keeping his Navy alive! On the other hand, Gaddis wasn’t stupid. In fact, aside from a certain quixotic streak where things like corruption were concerned, he had a reputation as one of the smartest people on the block. He was also one of the people who was most likely to have heard the truth about Operation Fabius, not the garbled accounts of victory which had leaked to the boards. That meant he had to know Kingsford was going to be…less than responsive to anything else for a while. From which it followed…

  “Well, in that case, I guess you’d better put him through, Marilis,” he sighed.

  “He’s not on the com, Sir,” Chernova replied. “He’s here in person.”

  Kingsford’s eyebrows tried to climb into his hairline. Then he shrugged.

  “In that case, change that to ‘I guess you’d better send him in,’” he said, and stood behind his desk as Chief Chernova showed the Gendarmerie officer into his office. Under the circumstances, he decided to dispense with the customary offer of refreshments and twitched his head at the office door. Chernova smiled faintly and effaced herself without another word.

  “With all due respect, Brigadier Gaddis,” Kingsford said then, waving brusquely for Gaddis to take a seat, “this really had better be damned important. I know the boards are starting to talk about our ‘great victory,’ but to paraphrase King Pyrrhys, another ‘victory’ or two like this one, and we’re all fucked.” He showed his teeth in something that wasn’t a smile. “So I’m just a little busy right now.”

  “Understood, Admiral.” Gaddis nodded. “In fact, that’s why I’m here. There are a few things you need to know.”

  HMS Duke of Cromarty

  In Hyper-Space

  “Skipper, I realize we’re in a hurry, but Her Majesty’s going to be really, really pissed if we break the Duke. You do realize that, don’t you? And I don’t know about you, but I don’t like it when Her Majesty is pissed at me.”

  Captain Steven Firestine looked up from his mug of coffee at Commander Rice. The commander looked back, and his expression showed rather more genuine concern than his tone had.

  “I don’t plan on breaking anything, Alex,” he said mildly.

  “People don’t usually plan on things like that,” Rice pointed out. “It just sort of happens. Especially when you’ve pulled the governors on the hyper generator. I seem to remember reading somewhere that that’s what you might call a bad idea.”

  “I have total confidence in your ability to keep everything on the green,” Firestine said. “And, if it should happen that my confidence is misplaced, the Empress’s temper’s likely be the last thing you’ll have to worry about.”

  Rice looked remarkably unreassured.

  “Skipper,” he said in a much more serious tone, “if we pick up a harmonic this high in the Theta Bands, there’s no tomorrow. And we’re right on the edge of bouncing off the Iota wall. My systems are in good shape, but I’d be lying if I said I felt anything like confident about the way we’re stressing them.”

  “Understood.” Firestine took a long, slow sip of coffee, then lowered the cup. “Understood. But we’re not backing off.”

  “Sir—”

  “You’ve made your point, Alex. But we’re not backing off.” Firestine shook his head. “I understand what you’re saying, and the truth is, I tend to agree. But there’s too much riding on this.”

  Rice couldn’t quite keep skepticism out of his expression, and in some ways, Firestine didn’t blame him. If Empress Elizabeth’s personal yacht hit the Iota wall, it was unlikely there’d be any survivors. But Rice hadn’t been party to Firestine’s sickbay conversation. He didn’t understand the implications, the reason Firestine was determined to set a new record for the Beowulf-Sol run. He was going to shave every second he could off that passage. And if that meant hazarding his command, so be it.

  There were some people you didn’t fail, and Steven Firestine was not going to be the one who failed this time.

  CNO’s Office

  Admiralty Building

  City of Old Chicago

  Old Earth

  Sol System

  The private lift car slid to a stop, and Caswell Gweon allowed himself a final grimace before putting his professional expression firmly in place. He didn’t expect this to be a pleasant conversation. That wasn’t the same as not wanting to have it, however, and he wondered exactly why he’d been summoned.

  The rumors had truly started to fly only about twelve hours earlier, which was fairly remarkable, really, since it was almost four days since TF 790’s return. He wasn’t sure if those rumors had spurted out of the usual leaks or if other Alignment agents had been feeding them to the newsies, but so far there’d been no mention of any mysterious gatekeepers helping the SLN penetrate Beowulf’s defenses.

  His own analyses had viewed any official conclusions in that direction with careful skepticism. He couldn’t just pretend those two drones hadn’t seen something, but he’d come down heavily on the “probably just a sensor glitch” side. At the moment, though, the influence his analysis exerted was…ambiguous. He’d gotten a lot of credit as the analyst who’d first warned that something like the Manties’ new missile defense system was in the course of deployment. On the other side, he’d been hammered over his estimate of how long it would take them to actually put it online. At the moment, at least as long as it was still a matter of “sensor glitches,” he could argue they hadn’t put it online—not the FTL component, at any rate—and that even if they had, his worst-case estimate had been that it might already be in place by the time Fabius actually got there. It would be so much better all around, though, if no one figured out that the Alignment really had been plowing the road for the Solarian Navy.

  In the meantime, he needed to start shoring up his position with Winston Kingsford, repairing any damage it might have suffered after TF 790’s disastrous experiences. That required opportunities to give the CNO good analysis, demonstrate how engaged he was, and impress him with his general competence, which was why he was glad he’d been summoned even if he expected a certain amount of reaming out.

  The lift door slid open and he stepped out of it.

  “You wanted to see me, Sir?” he said as Winston Kingsford rose behind his desk and nodded in greeting.

  “Actually, yes, I did. Or, rather, we did.”

  The CNO waved one hand, and Gweon’s head turned as his eyes followed it. Then his eyebrows rose as he saw the Gendarmerie brigadier and colonel standing just inside the door to the office’s public anteroom.

  “Caswell,” Kingsford said, “this is Brigadier Simeon Gaddis and Lieutenant Colonel Okiku.”

  Gweon nodded and held out his hand, his expression calm and merely mildly surprised, despite the sudden flurry of questions racing through his brain.

  “Brigadier,” he said a bit cautiously, shaking Gaddis’s hand and nodding across the brigadier’s shoulder at Okiku. “Colonel. What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, Admiral,” Gaddis replied releasing his hand and stepping back a pace. “You can keep your hands where we can see them.”

  “What?” Gweon’s eyes went wide as Okiku produced a stunner and pointed it at him. Something about the colonel’s dark, almond eyes suggested that she really, really wanted to squeeze its trigger.

  “I’m afraid you’re under arrest, Rear Admiral Gweon,” Gaddis said coldly.

  “Excuse me?” Gweon stared at him, his expression one of shocked disbelief, segueing with perfect timing into outraged innocence. “Under arrest?” His voice gained volume. “What for?”

  “Treason against the Solarian League will do for starters.” Gaddis’s voice was carved from Ganymedian ice. “We know about you and your fiancée, and our other agents are picking up Rajmund Nyhus and Shafiqa Bolton at this very moment.” He smiled thinly. “I’m sure that between them and your other friends, you’ll have plenty to tell us about the people you’re really working for.”

  Gweon froze. The surprised innocence flowed off his face like water, and his eyes went cold and very focused for just a moment. Then his hands rose to clutch his head, his knees sagged, and he toppled forward.

  He was dead by the time his face hit the carpet.

  “My God, Gaddis!” Winston Kingsford said shakenly, two minutes later, as Natsuko Okiku rose from checking Gweon’s pulse and shook her head once. “My God! When you suggested this, I thought you had to be crazy! What do we do now?”

  “That’s the million-credit question, Sir.” Gaddis scowled down at the body. “To be honest, I’d really have preferred to take this son-of-a-bitch alive, but as what just happened damned well proves, the odds of our doing that were never good. That’s why I was willing to run our bluff and risk his dropping dead as our test case to give you the proof we weren’t just lunatics. And, over all, I’d say Barregos’s story about what happened when he arrested those ‘Manty agents’ has just been pretty thoroughly corroborated. But if every one of them drops dead like this bastard, proving who they’re really working for—and I will absolutely guarantee you it isn’t the Manties—will be the next damned thing to impossible.”

  “Jesus!” Kingsford sat abruptly. “The Manties.”