He knew the arguments in favor of the operation. Even agreed that the concerns behind them were well taken. The fact that the 'Kingdom of Torch' didn't have a navy now didn't mean it couldn't acquire one. Or, for that matter, even borrow one. There was that treaty Cassetti had negotiated with it, for example. And the Republic of Erewhon had shown clearly enough where its sympathies lay. So, yes, it was always possible a genuine military threat could evolve in Verdant Vista.
From that perspective, it could be argued that creating a situation in which no one lived in Verdant Vista anymore was the most economical way to protect the secret. And the advantage Verdant Vista would offer when the Alignment's military operations inevitably intruded into the Haven Quadrant were huge. A direct wormhole connection to the quadrant from the Alignment's primary military base? Any commander in history would have killed for that kind of an advantage!
But would he have killed an entire planetary population to get it? Or, for that matter, to fend off a "threat" to it that would probably never materialize anyway? One he'd have plenty of time to factor into his plans later if it did look like materializing, come to that? Trajan asked himself. That's what sticks in your craw, Addie . . . and in mine. And it's the reason we're both so damned pissed off with Ganneau, too, isn't it? Because what he did to that Manty survey cruiser is exactly what "Manpower" is planning on doing to the entire damned star system.
Of course it was, and that was the reason he should never have started this conversation in the first place. Task Force Four wasn't going to be involved in it, anyway—not unless something went more massively wrong than Trajan could imagine, at any rate. And dragging his most trusted subordinates into this sort of moral morass with him wasn't what a good commanding officer was supposed to do.
If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, Osiris, he told himself grimly. Either send in your resignation because it's so morally repugnant to you, or else keep your mouth shut instead of contributing to your subordinates' possible uncertainty.
"I take your point, Addie," he said out loud. "And I don't disagree with you. But as you just pointed out," he looked across the table, holding her eyes levelly, his own silently warning, "the actual execution order came from someplace way above my pay grade. So there's not really much point in our kicking it around, is there?"
"No, Sir," she replied after a moment, and he smiled at her.
"In that case, let's kick something else around," he said much more briskly. "In particular, there's that new simulation I understand you and Ildikó have been tinkering with. Tell me about what you've got in mind."
"Well, Sir," his flag captain glanced at Commander Nyborg, then back to Trajan, "it occurred to us that it might not be a bad idea for us to begin at least playing around with a 'notional dual-drive missile.' I don't want to make it anything too close to current MAN hardware capabilities, but I do think it would be a good idea to start stretching our tac officers' minds in that direction. So, what Ildikó and I were thinking is that we'd take the position that at least some of the reports about current Manty capabilities may have a stronger basis in fact than the SLN is prepared to admit. On that basis, we could then sketch out the capabilities of something approaching current MAN hardware."
She paused and nodded to Nyborg, clearly inviting the operations officer to jump in, and the commander leaned slightly forward in her chair, her feminine yet undeniably square and sturdy face, alight with interest.
You're relieved we've stopped talking about what's about to happen in Verdant Vista, aren't you, Ildikó? Trajan thought, and knew it was true.
"What the Captain is suggesting here, Sir," Nyborg said, "is that coming up with this 'notional missile'—that was her idea, Sir, but I think it was a damned good one—will start our tac people thinking in terms of the offensive potentials of that kind of weapon . . . which will also start making them fully aware of the threat potentials. Frankly, it's our ability to stop or seriously degrade, at least, Manty missile strikes that concerns us the most, so starting an open consideration of ways to do that strikes us as making a lot of sense."
"I can't argue with that," Trajan told her. "So tell me about this 'notional missile.' "
"Well, Sir," Nyborg said, "what we started with was—"
Chapter Fifty-One
October, 1921
"So, Jack . . . how much longer do you think it'll be till the Center hands me my severance pay?"
"Not long, actually," McBryde admitted.
He leaned back in his own chair, taking his beer stein with him, and shook his head. He and Herlander Simões sat in his kitchen once again, as they'd sat so often over the past months. The fact that they'd been just about due for one of their regular conversations when he paid his visit to Turner's diner had had more than a little to do with his timing.
"That's about what I figured." Simões managed a twisted smile. "I don't suppose you have any idea what they might plan on doing with me after that, do you?"
"No. To be honest, though, I don't think it's going to be very pleasant, Herlander." He grimaced. "All those e-mails of yours to Dr. Fabre aren't exactly likely to weigh in your favor, you know. To be frank, I've been worrying a little bit about you over the last couple of weeks. We both know your time at the Center's getting short. I figure that's one reason your temper's been even worse than usual lately, to be honest. And I've also been wondering just how tempted you've been to try something to get even."
"Get even with who?" Simões laughed harshly. "The Alignment? You think they'd even notice anything I could do at this point? And I'm pretty sure Fabre's security wouldn't let me anywhere near her. Or any of the rest of the LRPB, for that matter! And"—his voice softened ever so slightly—"I'm not going to do anything to 'get even' with the Center, Jack. Not when I know how that would have to splash on you."
"Thank you," McBryde said softly.
He took a swallow of beer, giving his guest a moment or two, then leaned forward.
"Thank you," he repeated, "but, be honest with me, Herlander. You do want to get even, don't you?"
Simões looked at him silently for several seconds. Then his nostrils flared, and his face took on a strange, hard expression—a focused expression, harsh with hatred.
"In a heartbeat, Jack," he admitted, and it was almost as if he found it a relief to say the words out loud, even to McBryde, the man—the friend, as well as keeper—whose job it was to keep him from achieving exactly that. "Oh, in a heartbeat. But even if I wanted to, how could I? It's not like I'm in a position to accomplish anything on the grand scale. And, to be honest, I could spend the rest of my life 'getting even' and never come close to what those bastards deserve."
He looked McBryde straight in the eye, letting him see the anger, the hatred, the concentrated bitterness, and McBryde nodded slowly.