"Why didn't you oppose him from the beginning, then?" he asked after a moment, instead of what he'd been about to say, and Ruth sighed.
"Because I couldn't," she said, in a tone which mingled bitterness with something else. She gazed down at her hands, examining them as if they were a stranger's. "Because like I told Oversteegen, between him and the damage that idiot High Ridge has already done to our relationship with Haven, the best I can do is try to minimize the consequences of whatever it is he's up to. I certainly can't stop him, and if I try, I'll only make the fresh damage worse. So the only pragmatic response available to me is to dig in to help him, instead. To salvage what I can in terms of credit for having recognized my Star Kingdom's—or, at least, my family's—moral responsibility to do whatever we can to end the problem of Congo."
"Solely because of Realpolitik and pragmatism, Your Highness?" Du Havel asked softly, and she looked back up quickly. It was odd, really, how such a pudgy man could have such an eagle's gaze.
"Is that all it was for you?" he pressed. "Political calculation? Oh, you're right, of course. My own analysis matches yours almost exactly, although I'm sure you're more intimately familiar with the local political, diplomatic, and military parameters of the entire situation. But is that the only reason you supported him so quickly?"
She looked back at him steadily for several seconds, then shook her head.
"No," she said softly. "I almost wish I could say it were, but it isn't." She inhaled deeply. "As you say, whatever else he may be up to, he is willing to do something about Congo. And if he manages that, the consequences for Manpower and the entire institution of genetic slavery..."
She shook her head again.
"My people are already dead," she said even more softly. "I can't bring them back. But if Cachat can pull this off, then maybe I can at least make their deaths mean something."
"Precisely," Du Havel said. "And that's my point. A point you obviously already understand perfectly—intellectually, at least. I'll even concede all those other points, all those other responsibilities. But the bottom line is that right here and now, you can't do anything about those. You can do something about your other responsibilities, though. The ones that everyone has—like the one to do whatever you can to fight something like slavery."
He snorted harshly, and his expression hardened.
"That's the perspective of an ex-slave, Your Highness. Obligation and responsibility weave complicated nets, and your net is as complicated as they come. But, like all Gordian knots, there comes a time when the only alternative is to cut through all the twists and turns and constrictions. And in this instance, the sword doing the cutting is brutally simple. All that remains is for you to look inside and see if you have the guts—and the integrity—to pick it up and swing it.
"So what's it going to be, Princess?Are you going to keep flogging yourself over your so-called 'betrayal' of your 'morality,' or are you going to be one of those rare upper crust types who isn't afraid of getting her own hands dirty? Personally, I hope you keep trusting your own instincts."
Ruth looked down at her hands once more, now folded in her lap.
"You two would make really lousy psychotherapists," she pronounced. "Aren't you supposed to be... you know. At least a little sympathetic?"
Berry thought Web's response was exceedingly uncouth. "Why?" he demanded. She herself was already giving Ruth another warm hug.
"Don't be a bastard, Web," she growled, squeezing Ruth more tightly for just an instant.
"Why not? I am a bastard." He stuck out his tongue, showing the genetic markers, pointing to them with a stubby forefinger. "Thee? Nod a wegaw pawent in thide."
He withdrew the tongue. "Nope. Neither mother nor father recorded, to give me a proper upbringing. Just 'J-16b-79-2/3.' That's me. A bastard born and bred."
Ruth managed a chuckle, of sorts. "You don't have to be quite so smug about it."
"You certainly don't," chimed in Berry firmly. She tightened her arms around Ruth's shoulders. Berry understood Web's attitude, well enough—Cachat's too, for that matter. She even shared it herself, to a degree. But she also thought both of them had a tendency to err in the other direction; a tendency which, pushed too far, could become every bit as ugly as the callous indifference of the high and mighty.
"It's kind of a screwed-up universe," she whispered into Ruth's ear. "We just do the best we can, that's all."
Ruth was back to sobbing again; or, at least, trying to stifle the sobs. But Berry could feel her head nodding. Quite firmly, in fact.
She found that very reassuring. Especially combined with the sobs.
"I really like you a lot," she whispered. "And I know Laura and Christina did too. They told me, once."
There was no stifling the sobs now. Nor should they have been stifled. Berry just maintained the embrace, while giving Web a meaningful glance.
He didn't mistake the meaning of that glance. Okay, bastard. You've done your job. She'll be fine in a few hours. Now get the hell out of here.
He was on his feet and heading for the door at once. No professor, not even Du Havel, was that absentminded.
Chapter 32
Commander Watson greeted Oversteegen as he stepped onto Gauntlet's bridge.
"Sorry to disturb you, Sir," the XO said, "but I thought you'd better take a look at this." She gestured at the display screen.
"What is it?" Oversteegen came over.
The XO pressed a button, bringing up a display. "It's a recording of a broadcast made less than an hour ago by Countess Fraser. The first official statement on the kidnaping by our ambassador."
Oversteegen tightened his jaws. From the look on Watson's face, he wasn't going to like what he was about to see.
By the end, in fact, he was downright furious. The first two-thirds of Fraser's statement he could have accepted, more or less, as meaningless diplomatic prattle. But the Manticoran ambassador hadn't been satisfied with just leaving it at that. Instead, at the end, she'd placed the blame squarely on Erewhon:
"... outrageous that the Princess' guards were slaughtered, in the middle of Erewhonese security..."
"She is aware that almost two dozen Erewhonese security guards were also murdered by Templeton's gang, isn't she?" grated Oversteegen. The XO, recognizing a rhetorical question—and the seething anger behind it—made no reply.
"... entirely Erewhon's responsibility, and the Star Kingdom of Manticore will hold its authorities responsible for the well-being of the Princess. Furthermore—"
That was the point at which Oversteegen reached out a long finger and ended the recording. The gesture had something of the finality of an executioner pushing a red button.
"Get me the Manticoran embassy," he said. "I'll take the call in my cabin."
Within seconds after Oversteegen entered his cabin, an embassy official was on the screen. Someone named Joseph Gatri, who apparently bore the resplendent title of Third Consular Assistant, or some such.
"I'm afraid the ambassador isn't available at the moment, Captain. Is there something I—"
"Tell Deborah that if she's not 'available' in—" His lips peeled back in a smile that was indistinguishable from a snarl. "—exactly one minute, there will be royal hell t' pay."
The Third Assistant Whatever stared at him. "But, ah, Captain..."
Oversteegen was studying his watch. "Fifty-five seconds. That's also, by the way, a measure of the time left in your probable career. Get Deborah, you nincompoop!"
Countess Fraser appeared with less than ten seconds remaining in Oversteegen's deadline. She did not look like a happy woman.
"What is it, Captain Oversteegen? And I would appreciate it if you'd stick to the proper formalities."