“Young upstart,” Mason said without heat. “I guess that the whole incident at Terra Nova convinced most of us oldsters to give him a ship.”
Marius snorted. Mason was fifty years old and, going by some of the pre-war standards, young for his current rank. He wouldn’t have been given Task Force Kidd at all, were it not for the fact that he needed fleet command experience to be promoted higher. Marius expected him to do well, if only because getting in, hitting the target and getting out again were skills that fighter pilots excelled in. Mason hadn’t flown a fighter in years—his leg had had to be replaced after an accident that had nearly killed him—but he still had the guts and determination that had taken him into the cockpit.
“He’s brave,” Marius said after another swallow of wine. “He’ll do well, so don’t attempt to relieve him without a very good cause.”
“Your young protégé,” Mason said dryly. “Why did you assign him to this operation? Midway is a good ship, perfect for the mission, but she’s hardly essential.”
“Everyone needs to learn by doing,” Marius said. “They told us at the Academy that it was sink or swim time. Didn’t they tell you something like that on Mars?”
Mason shrugged.
“I’m surprised you gave me Golden Hind,” he said. “Didn’t the Admiralty want you to keep her out of danger?”
“She’s ideal for the mission,” Marius said, scowling. “And I really cannot spare any of the fleet carriers I have to join you. The Admiralty keeps making noises about transferring some of my superdreadnaughts to face one of the other warlords and that would invite attack from Justinian if he realizes we’ve been weakened. I’d bet you anything you want to put forward that he has his spies in this system, watching us.”
He scowled again. The Core Worlds were the greatest nexus of industrial power in the known universe, but gearing up to produce a vastly-expanded military took time and money. He hadn’t heard much from the Senate, yet there were stories about production issues and work slowdowns that had been largely kept out of the media. Admiral Justinian had been preparing his own industrial base for ten years, and was still building it up. If the war lasted too long, God alone knew how many other warlords would be deploying their own industrial production nodes.
But then, the Bainbridge Protocols had ensured that every system had at least the basics in industrial production. That was something that had come back to bite the Federation on the behind. Hard.
“Losing her would be a public relations catastrophe,” Mason said darkly. “You know that operations are not predictable.”
“No,” Marius agreed. Golden Hind was a star carrier, identical to Enterprise…and, just like her sister, was neither a fleet carrier nor a superdreadnaught. Using her as a mobile base for a raiding party made far more sense than risking her in battle, even though losing her would not amuse the Senate, or the Admiralty either. “I expect you to do as you see fit. I wish I could come with you, but…”
“I know exactly how you feel.” Mason drained his wine and stood up, placing the empty glass on the small table. “I’ll uplink my operational plans once my staff and I have drawn them up, admiral. And I won’t relieve your young officer. Besides, most of the task force will be operating independently during the operation.”
“I know,” Marius said. Realistically, losing the entire task force—even Golden Hind—wouldn’t affect the balance of power that much. The media, however, would go mad and demand answers—and he would shift from public hero to villain very quickly. “Good luck, admiral. Depart as soon as you are ready to go.”
Marius settled back into the sofa as the hatch closed behind Mason. He didn’t want to admit it, but he envied the man. Mason was going to be doing something, rather than floating near an Asimov Point that might at any moment disgorge an attacking fleet with blood in its eye. Marius had learned at the Academy about a politician who’d fancied himself a general; he’d arranged, perhaps by coincidence, that powerful armored forces would be drawn up on the border, facing his enemies. Eventually, the enemies had—like civilians living on a dormant volcano—started to grow used to the threat and to discount it. And then, when his enemy was lured into dangerous complacency, the politician-general had struck—and won.
Of course, if he’d folded his cards then, rather than choose to continue the war, he might have reshaped the world in his image.
There was a chime at the hatch. Marius sent a command through his implants; the hatch hissed open, revealing Commander Raistlin. Marius wasn’t too happy with the thought of having a permanent aide, as he’d always been more comfortable with a tactical staff. But Fleet Admirals were always assigned aides. Marius’ case had been unusual, though, as most senior officers above the rank of captain arranged aides for themselves—but he had to admit that Raistlin had thus far been very helpful. If only he didn’t keep updating his superior on matters that were for junior eyes.
“I have the latest reports from Commodore Tsing,” Raistlin said. He was always polite, but his manner conveyed an undertone of informality that reminded Marius of his exalted family. “He says that his squadron should be back in formation in three days at the latest.”
“Good,” Marius said.
Tsing’s squadron—the One Hundred and Twenty-Third Superdreadnaught Squadron—was largely composed of new ships from the Jupiter Yards, but they’d been having teething problems since before they’d arrived and joined his command. Their engineers had reported that someone had skimped on the shielding, requiring several days of difficult and expensive repair. At least they’d managed to move a mobile dock and fabricator into the system—with the Senate complaining hugely about the cost, of course—and they hadn’t had to send the ships back to the nearest Fleet Yard.
“Has there been any update from Commodore Lopez?” Marius asked.
“No, sir,” Raistlin said. “His last update was at 0700. Since then, his squadron has not reported in to the flagship.”
Marius stroked his chin while remembering that Lopez he hadn’t been given orders to report in regularly. “Never mind, then. If there is no other business, I suggest that you hit your rack and get some sleep. We’re going to have a long and busy day tomorrow.”
He smiled while Raistlin saluted and left the cabin, but frowned as soon as Raistlin was gone. The commander’s very presence was odd. He was good enough at his job, but it was clear that he hadn’t wanted the position. And considering his father’s political connections should’ve assured that Raistlin would’ve been able to get him transferred to a better position, it was even odder that Raistlin was here.
Raistlin’s father was a powerful Senator. The Admiralty wouldn’t pick a fight with him over something as minor as his son’s position. A powerful Senator could cause a great deal of harm if he decided to attack the Navy…
He dropped that train of thought, then activated his implants and uploaded a very specific code into the room’s processor. The hatch sealed with an audible clunk, and the monitors were turned off. No one else on the ship, apart from her captain, could deactivate the monitors at will; indeed, few were even aware they existed. It would only have upset the crew if they’d known that everything they did was recorded.
Once he’d performed a quick sweep for bugs, he unlocked the drawer in which he’d put the private datachip with his thumbprint, and then opened and removed both the datachip and a private terminal. Keeping a private system wasn’t exactly against regulations, as it was tricky to enforce, but it would certainly raise eyebrows if anyone knew he had it.