All for All, page 14
part #3 of Cast Adrift Series
"As do we," Ambassador Graze said. "We also have a prospective first target for our joint operations. The Pashtali are currently laying siege to Tarsus and we think raising the siege would show, again, that they can be beaten."
"I imagine so," Nancy said, neutrally. "Military matters are outside my purview. The admiral would have to consider the matter."
"Of course," Ambassador Graze said, with no trace of the irritation a human might show under the same circumstances. He understood, perhaps better than she had a right to expect, that her authority was both vast and strictly limited. It went against the grain to be completely honest about what she could and couldn't do, as Ambassador-At-Large, but it worked in her favour. "We suggest, however, that the operation be mounted as soon as possible."
He stood, fur rippling as he bid her farewell. Nancy stood too and watched him go, then returned to her chair. The marines would escort the ambassador back to his shuttle and then wait at the airlock to meet the next ambassador. Nancy sighed and reached for a glass of water. It had been a long day, with so many breaches in diplomatic protocol she felt quite unmoored from reality. She was too used to the elegant dance of galactic diplomats, not the bluntness of races that saw no reason to pretend there wasn't an iron fist inside the silken glove. Her lips twitched in grim amusement. Her old mentor had once told her there was a right and proper way to say give me what I want or I'll beat the hell out of you and take it anyway and woe betide anyone who didn't follow it. Threats of violence were acceptable, apparently, as long as they were couched in the proper terms. What did it say about the Galactics, she asked herself, that they were more concerned with appearances than reality?
That they're no different from a housewife dabbing makeup on her cheeks to hide the bruises, she thought, sourly. And pretending everything is fine while everyone else knows it damn well isn't.
She reached for her datapad and hastily started to note her impressions of the meeting. It had been a busy week, first dickering with the alien ambassadors and then haggling with the corporations and tiny governments dotted across the system. Terminus's lack of a central authority, one with formal control over the system even if the reality was very different, was a major problem. Reading between the lines, she suspected some of the governments she'd encountered were semi-criminal organisations, existing on the borderline between grey and black affairs. She suspected the various lesser powers would eventually be forced to impose order, just to keep their claim to control the system itself. The Pashtali would certainly make a big song and dance about the alliance not controlling the planets, which would undermine their control over the crossroads ... not, she supposed, that it would matter in the long run. No one cared about the formalities any longer. The matter would be decided by who had the biggest guns and the willingness to use them.
Which is depressing as hell, she reflected. No one cares about right or wrong, just who is the stronger when push comes to shove.
She sighed inwardly. Her mentor had pointed out, when she'd been young and naive, that naked force had settled more issues than anything else. If there was no strong power enforcing the rules, no one keeping aggressive powers from breaking them, the rules were meaningless. And if there was a strong power enforcing the rules, what was to stop that power becoming a tyrant in its own right? One could come up with all sorts of justifications to do whatever one wanted to do - the Alphans had insisted they'd invaded Earth for the planet's own good - but they were nothing more than a thin veneer of justification, the silken glove over the iron fist. Who cared what the Earthers of a few hundred years ago had wanted? All that mattered was that the Alphans had the strength and will to take the planet from its rightful owners. Hell, they'd made themselves the rightful owners.
The intercom beeped. "Ambassador, Admiral Yagami is asking for a moment of your time," her assistant said. "When do you want to speak with her?"
Nancy's lips twitched. There was no formal protocol governing the relationship between a fleet admiral and a roving ambassador, save for a handful of procedures humanity had inherited from their former masters. None of them were remotely appropriate for her current situation, although she rather wished they were. The human race would be far better off if the Solar Navy could hammer the Pashtali into rubble, leaving her to dictate terms to the survivors. But it wasn't going to happen.
"Inform the admiral I'll call upon her after I'm finished with the next ambassador," she said, tiredly. They might have done all the preparatory work over the FTL transmitters, but she still needed to meet the ambassadors in person. "And hopefully everything will be settled by then."
She smiled, again. Diplomacy was normally a slow process. It could take months to hammer out an agreement to proceed with talks, then sort out how the talks should be conducted before they got started. A major power intent on stalling could bog matters down by insisting on discussing the shape of the conference table and other trivialities, then raising objections to everything the other power proposed. But here ... the lesser powers had no time to argue about such minor details. The bare bones of the alliance treaties had been hammered out very quickly, with only a handful of details remaining for her and her peers to work out over the last week. The Galactics probably wouldn't believe it, when the agreements were formally announced. It would be about as believable, to them, as the claim the Pashtali had lost billions of starships in the Battle of Earth.
And so they'll be surprised, she thought. They really shouldn't be.
***
"Admiral," Olson said. "The last of the supplies from local sources have arrived. The repair crews are inspecting them now."
Naomi nodded, rubbing her eyes. The system might not have a central government, or any shore leave facilities her crew could use, but it did have a surprisingly large number of independent spacers, engineers and quasi-legal repair yards. The sheer inventiveness of the local engineers was almost human. They had a habit of taking tech from a dozen different races and refurbishing it, even improving it, then selling it on to anyone with money and a reluctance to ask questions. Reading between the lines, Naomi was sure some of the repaired ships ended up in pirate hands, but right now she didn't have time to care. Terminus had been more than happy to sell her fleet everything it needed, at a price.
"Very good," she said. The fleet was ready to press on, more or less. She would have preferred more time - as well as a chance to give her crew some leave - but it wasn't going to happen. The spooks insisted the Pashtali would assemble their fleets as quickly as possible to retake the system. "How did the tactical simulations go?"
"The online simulations went well," Olson said. If he was surprised she hadn't been watching in realtime, he kept it to herself. "It may not work out so well in reality."
"No," Naomi agreed. The Solar Navy had no practice operating as part of a multispecies formation. It had never been required to serve alongside the Alphans, even when it had been the EDF. Now ... everyone was being very cooperative, surprisingly so, but there were too many kinks that needed to be weeded out before she took the fleet into battle. A single misunderstanding in the middle of a fight could lead to disaster. "We'll have to find out soon."
The intercom pinged. "Admiral, Ambassador Middleton has arrived."
"Send her in," Naomi ordered. She glanced at Olson. "Go back to the flag deck and inform the tactical staff I want a full analysis by the end of the shift."
"Aye, Admiral."
Naomi stood as Ambassador Middleton was shown into the compartment. It hadn't been easy to know how to treat the older woman when she'd first arrived on Dauntless. Nancy Middleton's career had reached the very highest levels, then fallen, then started to rise again ... Naomi didn't pretend to understand it. She supposed it spoke well of the First Speaker that he worked so closely with his former rival, rather than casting her into the political wasteland. But then, it had served a very practical purpose. The Solar Navy would have come apart at the seams if the new government had tried to purge loyalists from the ranks. It would have led to disaster, if not outright civil war.
"Ambassador," Naomi said. They'd been told to sort out a working relationship, rather than have their spheres clearly delineated by their superiors. "Thank you for coming."
"My pleasure." Nancy took the indicated chair. "I assume the Munoz sent you their proposal?"
Naomi keyed her terminal, bringing up the message, the starchart and the notes her staff had attached. She had gone through all the possible targets, when they'd been planning the operation, but she hadn't let herself get attached to any of them. Tarsus wasn't a bad choice, if the local intelligence reports were accurate. The system belonged to a spacefaring race that had told the Pashtali to pound sand, when the Pashtali had informed them they were part of the Pashtali Empire now and any attempt to resist would be severely punished. The fighting in space hadn't lasted long - the Pashtali had brought in overwhelming firepower - but the planet itself was heavily defended, forcing the Pashtali to land troops. So far, the honours were about even, yet it was only a matter of time before the Pashtali forced the defenders to surrender. The only thing keeping them from surrendering now, judging by the reports, was the grim awareness the Pashtali would punish the defenders harshly for daring to resist.
Bastards, she thought. They can do what they like, to whoever they like, but if someone stands up to them it's unfair and illegal and they must be punished.
"It seems like a workable concept," she said. "But" - her lips thinned as she eyed the chart - "the system isn't a bottleneck. We could beat the orbiting starships and hammer their forces on the ground, but the Pashtali would return in force and resume the invasion. There's no way to keep them off balance permanently."
"Unless they're too busy chasing us," Nancy said. "It would buy the defenders some time though, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, but not enough to save them," Naomi said. "Not in the long run ..."
She frowned. She disliked the idea of risking her ships, and the newborn alliance, on a mission that could have no long-term effect, not unless the Pashtali completely changed their tune and abandoned the war. And yet, she had very little choice. She needed to both give the Pashtali a bloody nose - another one - and prove to the galaxy that humanity was serious about allying with other smaller powers to take down a big one. And ...
"The system isn't a bottleneck," she repeated. "We could get very close to them without letting their scouts know we're there."
"And then put a knife in their backs," Nancy said. "That would make us look good."
Naomi wasn't so sure. "My ancestors won a great many battles, during the Second Global War," she said. "They still got heavily outproduced and crushed. We might be in the same position now."
"There are other powers that might side with us, if we show we can win victories and keep winning victories," Nancy countered. The determination in her voice was striking. "The Pashtali are not popular."
"Neither is the average school bully," Naomi said, tartly. "That doesn't mean everyone gangs up on him and beats him to a pulp."
She scowled. She'd known some terrible bullies in her time. Some had been expelled or imprisoned; some had shaped up and made something of themselves ... she didn't know any who'd been forced to quit bullying by his peers. Or hers ... she shook her head, dismissing the thought. The logic of galactic power was the same logic as the bully. If the bully looked strong, he got away with it; if the bully looked weak, everyone jumped on him. Her mood soured. It was true that most bullies were cowards, but the only way to trigger the cowardly reflex was to give him something to be scared of and that wasn't easy.
"I'll speak to my staff and draw up a rough plan," she said. "I'll also send scouts to Tarsus and, more importantly, dispatch the raiders into their space. We need to keep them off balance as long as possible, to ensure they don't win a victory."
"If possible," Nancy agreed.
Naomi leaned forward. "One other thing," she added. "Can we trust the lesser powers to stick with us?"
"I think so," Nancy said. "The Pashtali weren't offering them anything beyond the chance to bend the knee. Even if the Pashtali really intended not to demand more, at a later date, how could they be trusted? Us? We're meeting them as equals. We don't have the power to crush them, and they know it."
"A balance of power," Naomi said.
"More like enlightened self-interest," Nancy countered. "As long as we and they have common interests, we'll work together towards a common goal."
Chapter Fifteen
James Bond, Tarsus System
"The new IFF codes are loaded into the transmitter," Sarah said, as the freighter approached the crossroads. "And they're as close to valid as possible."
Thomas nodded, curtly. He'd spent some time, before departing Terminus, trying to find out what the system's former masters had reported to their superiors, but he'd drawn a blank. The FTL transmitter was designed to wipe its records once it sent the messages - a common precaution, though irritating- and none of the other powers, corporations or criminal gangs invested in the system had recorded the outgoing messages. There was no reason to think the Pashtali would look at his ship too closely, but if they realised she'd passed through Terminus shortly before it fell they might start asking a few pointed questions. James Bond was hardly the only ship that fit that profile, yet ... who knew? In their shoes, Thomas would be very paranoid indeed after losing an entire system.
If the Pashtali wear shoes, he thought. Do they?
He smiled at the thought, then keyed the helm console as the timer ticked down to zero. The Tarsus crossroads were immense, far too large to become bottlenecks, but that didn't mean the defenders couldn't monitor the crossroads and watch for signs of someone trying to sneak into the system. If they tried ... he checked the IFF beacon, making sure it was pulsing out comforting lies. James Bond was just another tramp freighter, her crew moving from system to system, living life on a shoestring as they desperately tried to find contracts that would earn them enough money to keep their ship going for a few more months. The Pashtali might tell them to fuck off - or something along the same lines - but they probably wouldn't open fire without good cause. Probably. It wasn't easy to get the independent shipping community to agree on anything, but they'd unite in anger if anyone, even a great power, started to blow independent traders out of space. They had enough clout to make life very difficult for any government that refused to take a hard line with anyone who did.
The display blanked, then rebooted. Red icons flared up along the edge of the crossroads, then blinked to amber as it became clear the sensor contacts were nothing more than space junk. No, debris. The Pashtali had stormed the system, blown hell out of the handful of monitoring stations on the crossroads, then left the wreckage in place while laying siege to the planet itself. Thomas felt his stomach churn. There'd been no need to blow the stations away and slaughter their crews, nothing beyond pointless barbarity. They couldn't have kept the Pashtali from invading the system ... Thomas wondered, suddenly, if they'd been wrong about the Pashtali being willing to keep the war relatively civilised. If they were feeling desperate ...
"There are no active monitoring stations," Sarah said. "I'm not even picking up a standard beacon."
Thomas glanced at her, then back at his display. It was quite possible there was an entire fleet of cloaked ships holding position near the crossroads, or a handful of stealthed sensor platforms, but why bother? The Pashtali had every right to set up their own monitoring stations, secure in the knowledge Galactic Law would be on their side if someone blew them away. His eyes narrowed as the sensors collected more and more data, all insisting the ship was alone. Thomas knew better than to take that for granted. A lone ship, lying doggo near the crossroads, wouldn't be noticed by the passive sensors until she bought up her drives or active sensors. He reached for the console to do an active sensor sweep, then changed his mind. It would almost certainly draw attention they didn't want or need.
"Transmit a standard IFF pulse to Tarsus itself," he ordered, finally. "And inform them we'll enter orbit in five hours."
"Aye, sir," Sarah said. He could hear the smile in her voice. "I take it we're not in a hurry?"
"I see no reason to hurry," Thomas said. "We don't want them to think we're anything special, do we?"
He smiled, then sobered. The Pashtali were unlikely to look twice at his ship, unless they had some reason to be suspicious, but the locals might try to hire them. That would be ironic, if it got them caught. The locals would wonder why an independent freighter, a ship one bad day from complete failure, would decline a shipping contract, then complain to the Pashtali or the independent shippers. They might have to accept the contact, even if it meant going a long way out of their way. An independent - and desperate - captain who refused a contract was about as plausible a character as the gun-toting pacifist. Or the women whose first reaction to discovering a man spying on them was to fuck him, rather than screaming about perverts and demanding the man be beaten to within an inch of his life. The scriptwriters could create whatever characters they liked. The real world was rarely so obliging.
The display kept updating as more and more data flowed into the battle sensors. Tarsus was surrounded by dozens of energy signatures, suggesting the Pashtali were keeping the planet under a very tight siege. A handful of other ships were gliding through the asteroid belt, probably seeking out independent mining communities and forcing them to submit or die. The files insisted they'd been at least five cloudscoops orbiting the gas giant, but there was no sign of them. Thomas cursed under his breath. It didn't matter who had destroyed the cloudscoops. Either way, the price of fuel within the sector was about to rise if it hadn't already. And that meant independent shippers would find themselves trapped if they couldn't afford to pay.
