New Kiev sat back in her chair, visibly unhappy. Had her mood been light enough to allow for such observations, she might have reflected that at least Descroix looked almost as unhappy as she was.
"I don't really like it," the countess said finally. "I can't avoid the feeling that we're still being too confrontational. I've argued from the beginning that we've been overly cavalier in rejecting Republican proposals that"
She cut herself off and shook her head sharply.
"I'm sorry," she said almost curtly. "I didn't mean to rehash old arguments. What I meant to say, Michael, is that while I don't like it, I also don't see that we really have any other choice. As you say, it would be impossible to give her everything she's insisting upon. I feel we'll have to make that very clear in our response. But by the same token, leaving the door open will exert pressure on her to return to the table with a more reasonable attitude. And if she refuses to do so, then the onus will have been placed firmly where it belongson the Republic."
Despite his own anxiety, his sense that the situation was spinning further and further out of control, High Ridge felt a brief, bleak amusement at the countess' ability to evade what had to be evaded in the name of political expediency.
For himself, he conceded, his proposal was uncomfortably close to a council of despair. He doubted very much that the woman who'd composed that belligerent, exasperated note was prepared to put up with still more diplomatic sleight of hand. But for the backing of the naval strength Theisman had somehow managed to assemble without that idiot Jurgensen realizing he was doing it, she would have had no option but to continue to dance to his and Descroix's piping. Now, unfortunately, she thought she did have an option, and even if Janacek was right about the miscalculations on which she based that belief, she seemed oblivious to the possibility. Which meant she was just likely to rely upon it.
No. Whatever face he chose to put upon it for the rest of the Cabinet, High Ridge was well aware that his proposed response was actually a concession of weakness. All he could realistically hope to do at this point was to spin things out just a little longer. Long enough for Janacek's belated resumption of the Navy's building programs to produce a few new ships. Or, failing that, at least long enough for Pritchart to clearly and obviously become the aggressor in the wake of his own offers of "reasonable" compromise.
Neither of those things, he admitted to himself behind the mask of his outwardly confident features, was really likely. But his only alternatives were to play for the possibility, however remote, that he could pull one of them off or else to simply surrender everything he'd spent the last forty-six T-months trying to achieve.
He couldn't do that. Even running the very real risk of slipping back over into a brief, bloody clash with the Republic was better than that. Nor could he allow anything to divert his attention or his resources from the looming confrontation with Pritchart. Everything must be focused at the critical point, including the full resources of the Navy. Which meant all other problems, including whatever was happening in Silesia, must be relegated to a secondary or even tertiary level of priority. So people like Duchess Harrington were simply going to have to get by as best they could with the resources they already possessed, because Michael Janvier, Baron High Ridge, Prime Minister of the Star Kingdom of Manticore, refused to surrender without a fight.
Chapter Forty Five
"The exec needs you on the bridge, Skipper."
Thomas Bachfisch laid his cards facedown on the card table and swung his chair to face the rating who'd just poked his head through the hatch into the officers' lounge.
"Did he say why?" the captain asked.
"Yes, Sir. One of those Peep destroyers is up to something."
"Is it?" Bachfisch made his voice sound completely calm and glanced back at his partner and their opponents.
"I'd better go take a look," he told them, and nodded to Lieutenant Hairston. "Make sure they don't cheat when they add up the score, Roberta. We'll finish trouncing them later."
"If you say so, Skip," Hairston said, looking dubiously at the score sheet.
"I do," he assured her firmly, then stood and headed for the hatch.
Jinchu Gruber looked up from Pirate's Bane's main tactical display as Bachfisch arrived on the armed freighter's bridge. The plot was less detailed than it might have been, since the Bane had no interest in advertising her full capabilities. All of the data displayed on it had been collected using solely passive sensors, but that was quite adequate for Bachfisch's purposes. Especially this close to the object of his interest.
"What's happening, Jinchu?" he asked quietly as he crossed to the exec's side.
"I'm not really sure, Skipper," Gruber replied in a tone which made the simple statement answer at least half a dozen questions. Like "Why do you think we're so interested in a pair of Havenite destroyers?" or "Why do you think we've sat here in orbit for the last four days, piling up penalty fees for late delivery?" or "What in the galaxy do you think is going on in your captain's putative mind?"
Bachfisch's lips hovered on the edge of a smile as the thought passed through his brain, but it was a fleeting one.
"One of them is staying exactly where she's been ever since we got here," Gruber continued. "But the other one is headed out-system."
"She is, is she?" Bachfisch moved a bit closer to the exec and gazed down at the tac plot himself. The bright icon representing one of the Havenite tin cans was, indeed, headed for the hyper limit at a leisurely hundred gravities of acceleration. He watched it for a few seconds, then looked up and met Gruber's eye.
"I think it's time we were getting underway, Jinchu," he said calmly. "Take us out of orbit and put us on a heading of" he glanced back down at the plot again "one-zero-seven two-three-niner at one hundred gees."
Gruber looked back at him for perhaps three seconds, then nodded.
"Yes, Sir," he said, and turned from the tactical section towards the helmsman.
Bachfisch tipped back comfortably in his command chair, crossed his legs, and contemplated the spectacular beauty of the main visual display. Pirate's Bane rode the tangled force lines of a grav wave, sliding through hyper-space on the wings of her Warshawski sails. The huge disks of focused gravity stress radiated outward for the better part of three hundred kilometers at either end of her hull. They glowed and flickered with an ever shifting pattern of gorgeous radiance in an almost hypnotic rhythm which never ceased to amaze and humble him.
This time, however, his attention wasn't on the vision before him. It was on something else entirely, something he couldn't see at all...unless he looked back at his tactical repeater.
The Havenite destroyer loped steadily onward with the lean, greyhound grace of her breed, apparently oblivious to the cart horse of a freighter rumbling stolidly along behind her. It was unlikely that she was genuinely unaware of Pirate's Bane's presence. On the other hand, grav waves were the broad, gleaming highways of the ships which plied the depths of hyper-space. Given the sheer immensity of the universe, it was unusual for two ships not actively in company to find themselves within sensor range of one another even in a grav wave, but it was scarcely unheard of. After all, if two ships were headed in the same direction, they were bound to chart their courses to use the same grav waves. And some freighter skippers made it a point to ride the coattails of a transiting warship, whatever navy it belonged to, as a way to acquire a sort of jury-rigged escort through dangerous space.