All for All (Cast Adrift, #3), page 26
“Yes, Admiral,” Olson said. “There’s ... ah ... there’s also a report from Crossroads. She’s lost two of her four gravity generators. Her CO reports she can no longer produce a reliable crossroads on demand.”
“They told us she wouldn’t last forever,” Naomi mused. She looked up at him. “What can they do?”
“Produce gravity pulses, apparently,” Olson said. “Her CO requests permission to leave the fleet and return home.”
“Denied,” Naomi said. “We can’t repair her, even if she goes home.”
“I don’t think so,” Olson agreed. “The gravity generators are incredibly fragile. Once they started to fail, they triggered a chain reaction that tore the entire structure apart. Realistically, we should have been servicing the generators every time we used them. The CO seemed a little surprised we managed to get them as far as we did.”
“We’ll keep her with us, for the moment,” Naomi said. An idea crossed her sleep-deprived mind but refused to come into focus. “If nothing else, the Pashtali will want to retake her intact. We can use her as bait in a trap.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Olson said. He took a breath. “The repair crews think the majority of the work can be completed in a week. They did caution they may run into problems they cannot easily solve or run short of spare parts as well as manpower and expertise, but most of the damage can be repaired fairly quickly. The ships we believe to beyond repair, of course, are a different story.”
“We need to focus on the smaller repairs first,” Naomi said. She liked the idea of salvaging the badly damaged vessels, but she doubted it was possible. “The ships that are beyond easy repair will have to be put aside, at least for the moment.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Olson said. His face took on the indefinable air of a man who knew he was about to deliver bad news, the kind of news that wouldn’t be well-received. “The downside, however, is that we are currently cut off from the fleet train and the stockpiles we set up at Terminus, which means we will almost certainly run out of supplies. The repair officers want to call the fleet train here, so we can make use of their supplies ...”
“Which runs the risk of the enemy shadowing the fleet train to our current location,” Naomi mused. She’d worked hard to keep the exact location of the fleet train a secret, ordering the freighters to remain cloaked and to give any possible enemy contacts a wide berth, but she had a new respect for the Pashtali. If they spotted the fleet train, they’d do everything in their power to destroy it. “I think we’d be better off linking up with the fleet train as we take the offensive again.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Olson said. He was too tired to conceal his concern. “When do you intend to take the offensive?”
“As soon as the fleet is ready to go,” Naomi told him. “We don’t have time to waste.”
She sighed to herself. They hadn’t been able to pick up any messages, but she’d bet good money that the Pashtali were telling the universe they’d beaten the human fleet. The longer the fleet remained in hiding, the harder it would be to regain momentum when they retook the offensive. Their allies might stick with them – Naomi certainly hoped so – but neutral powers might stay clear or start tipping towards supporting the Pashtali. And the Galactics might change their minds about sending escort vessels into their territory.
“Ask the tactical deck to start looking for possible targets,” Naomi said. “We want to make an impact, without too much risk.”
Olson looked decidedly unimpressed. Naomi hid her amusement. She’d have felt the same way, when she’d been a junior officer. There was no way to avoid risk. Even trying smacked of cowardice. And yet, what choice did they have? They had to avoid a major confrontation until they were ready. She could easily win a battle and lose the war if the victory was costly as hell ...
“Aye, Admiral,” he said, finally. “I’ll see to it at once.”
Naomi nodded. “And go get some sleep,” she added. “That’s an order.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Olson said, again. “I ...”
He bit his lip. Naomi wondered, idly, if he was about to protest he was needed on the CIC or suggest that she too got some sleep. It didn’t matter. She’d already had the lecture from Nancy Middleton and she would get some rest, as soon as she read the report from Crossroads. She trusted Olson to summarise the gist of the report, and not miss out any important details, but there might be something in the report she needed to read for herself. Who knew what else the captured ship could do?
“Dismissed,” Naomi said. “Go rest.”
Or find a partner and go to the privacy tubes, her thoughts added. Or do something – anything – as long as it helps you rest.
“Aye, Admiral,” Olson said. “One final matter – when do you want to hold the funeral service?”
“Once we’ve completed the repairs,” Naomi said. It went against the grain not to hold the funeral service as quickly as possible, but the fleet was in dire straits. The living came first. Always. They’d pay their respects to the dead later. “Right now, we have to focus on preparing to retake the offensive.”
Olson stood. “Aye, Admiral.”
I probably made that point a little too well, Naomi reflected, as Olson stepped through the hatch. But it needs to be said.
She sighed as she stood and made her way to the sofa. She’d rest for a few hours, to let her body recover, then go back to work. By then, hopefully, the tactical staff would have a few possible targets for her. If they found somewhere important ... ideally, somewhere a little off the beaten track, somewhere the enemy wouldn’t expect her. Travelling off the threadlines was a risk, but what wasn’t? They needed to evade the enemy fleet until they were ready to face it.
The war is not over, she told herself firmly, as she lay down and closed her eyes. We lost a battle. But we didn’t lose the war.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Solar City, Earth
“The interstellar media is demanding answers, sir,” Foreign Minister Richard Hawthorne said. “They want to hear our side of the story.”
“And we have none to give.” First Speaker Abraham Douglas looked at Admiral Danielle Morrígan. “We don’t, do we?”
“No, sir,” Admiral Morrígan said. “The Pashtali claim they met our fleet in battle and defeated it. We have no independent verification, naturally, and they have declined to provide any hard sensor data to either us or neutral powers. That’s fairly common, unfortunately, but in this case it makes it impossible to verify what they’re telling us.”
“Of course,” Abraham agreed, dryly. It was possible to fake anything, he’d been assured, from love letters to diplomatic notes designed to trigger off a war, but it was far from easy to fake a full-scale battle. It was difficult to fake hard sensor data – there would always be something a little too neat about faked data – yet very few powers would simply hand over raw data for analysis. It would tell their rivals too many things about their capabilities. “So we know nothing?”
“Yes, sir,” Admiral Morrígan said. She paused, worrying her lower lip. “That said, the Pashtali are unlikely to lie outright. If they got caught in it, their credibility would be shot to hell. It would be an absolute gift to their enemies, including us. We assume, in the lack of any real data, that there was an engagement and we didn’t come out on top.”
Abraham felt ice gripping his heart. “And how badly did we lose?”
“The analysts think we lost the engagement, but it wasn’t a total defeat,” Admiral Morrígan said. “Assuming the Pashtali are telling the truth about the timing of the engagement, it’s been a week. If they destroyed the entire fleet, or forced it to surrender, they would be parading the remains on all the news channels, or making Admiral Yagami recite prewritten speeches about human aggression and suchlike in front of the entire universe. They would have scored one hell of a propaganda victory, but they didn’t. The analysts think the majority of their fleet escaped the trap.”
“But they don’t know,” Abraham repeated. “Right?”
“No, sir,” Admiral Morrígan said. “Like I said, we have no independent verification. We have been unable to determine if there were any neutral observers with hard sensor data on the scene, nor have we been able to make contact with the fleet. Our allies have also been unable to make contact with their squadrons. They know as little as us.”
“Unless we believe everything the Pashtali are telling us,” Abraham said. “What do the analysts make of their statements?”
“The Pashtali aren’t offering any real specifics,” Admiral Morrígan said. “That makes us think the battle took place, but that it wasn’t a total defeat. They might be more willing to share hard sensor data if they thought there was no chance of anyone being able to make use of it, at least in the next few months. We may not know for sure until we get in touch with the fleet, or what remains of it.”
She leaned forward. “Sir, the battle took place hundreds of light years away. It might be several weeks before we have any solid data.”
“I see.” Abraham was familiar with the realities of interstellar travel and communications – and how long it could take, at times, for reliable data to travel from one side of the explored galaxy to the other. “Richard, how do we stand with our allies?”
Hawthorne frowned. “The Terminus powers are still with us, from what they’ve said. They are in a poor position, strategically speaking, and the Pashtali don’t seem willing to offer more than vague promises in exchange for them leaving the war or turning on us. From what we’ve heard, they want Terminus and they’re prepared” – his voice turned scornful – “to pinkie-swear they won’t take the rest of the star systems if they’re allowed to keep the bottleneck. I don’t buy it and nor do our allies. They’re still massing their fleets to hold the bottleneck at all costs.”
“Which may come back to bite them, if the Pashtali have a second Crossroads,” Abraham observed. “Do they?”
“Unknown, sir,” Admiral Morrígan said. “We assume they have more than one, but – as far as we can tell – they only sent one against us. We simply don’t know.”
“The first starship of a new class is always massively expensive,” Martin Solomon commented. “The designs prove impractical, or need to be adjusted at short notice, or the early trials prove the ship needs extensive modifications before entering active service. Hell, we’ve had ships spring leaks in the hull because the designer had no practical experience and made a simple but potentially fatal mistake. The later ships are always cheaper because the bugs have been worked out of the design, and the construction crews know what they’re doing. Our calculations about how much Crossroads cost the Pashtali might be accurate, for a given value of accurate, but they might be able to produce more later, for a cheaper price.”
Abraham frowned. “Can you calculate how many more they might have?”
“No,” Solomon said. “We just don’t have the insight into their industrial base for anything more than wild-ass guessing. If we assume they intend to build Crossroads-class ships and nothing else, they’ll be able to churn out somewhere around a hundred or so within the next five years. However, that seems unlikely. My office thinks a more reasonable figure is five to ten ships of her class.”
“Practically speaking, we didn’t have a clue she existed until they jumped our fleet,” Admiral Morrígan cautioned. “No one else knew, from what we have been able to determine. It’s quite possible they have an isolated shipyard, either in one of their core systems or even somewhere in interstellar space and finding it will be difficult.”
“Agreed,” Solomon said. “There are just too many variables.”
“I understand.” Abraham looked at Hawthorne. “And the rest of our allies? And the neutral powers?”
“The Alphans have said nothing,” Hawthorne said. “My office has asked their ambassador for any intelligence they might have, from the sector, but so far we haven’t had any reply. The Galactics as a whole seem to be waiting to see what happens – they haven’t backed down on their threats to escort ships through the edge of enemy territory, yet they haven’t gone through with it either.”
“The battle was only a week ago,” Admiral Morrígan said. “They may have dispatched ships and we simply don’t know about it, not yet.”
“True,” Hawthorne agreed. “But they would be keen to try to avoid a clash with the Pashtali. Or us.”
He met Abraham’s eyes. “The situation is still very much in flux, sir,” he said. “The Pashtali are wobbling. Their grip on their empire and a number of crossroads and bottlenecks is looking shaky, and their problems are accelerating. The vultures are gathering, looking for ways to bite off chunks of their territory or even impose the right of free passage. The Pashtali have always been reluctant to allow free passage and free trade and, in doing so, they have made a lot of enemies. At the same time, they are still a major power. Their enemies may fall back if the Pashtali seem likely to win the war.”
“Of course,” Abraham agreed, sourly. “The strong do whatever they like and the weak suffer what they must.”
“Yes, sir,” Hawthorne said. “We are making progress. It is just very slow progress.”
He shook his head. “There’s been no change in their talks with us,” he added, after a moment. “The script hasn’t changed since the fleet departed. I don’t think their representatives are aware of how things have gone. Frankly, I stand by my original conclusion. They’re stalling to the point of absurdity. My guess is that they’re not even trying to keep us talking, not any longer.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time one arm of the government lost track of what the other arms were doing,” Abraham said. “Have they not tried to use the victory to pressure you and your representatives?”
“No, sir.” Hawthorne grinned. “If I went by what was discussed in the sessions alone, I’d say there were neither victories nor defeats. Their reps don’t seem aware of them. They just seem to be blindly following orders.”
“Which could mean their government hasn’t decided what to do,” Abraham said. “Or that they’re trying to determine how badly the defeat will weaken our position.”
“The public is already aware that something has gone wrong,” Jenny Geddes said. The Interior Minister scowled. “There’s no way to block civilians from accessing interstellar news networks. Most of them aren’t particularly trusted, not here, but enough are that word is starting to spread. We’re getting hundreds of questions from families of military personnel and there’s nothing we can do about that either. My office has been pushing the line of no independent verification, and I have staffers reminding people that the Pashtali have a long history of dishonesty, but I can’t promise it will have any effect. We don’t know enough to tell the world.”
“We don’t even know enough to lie,” Henry Travis said. The Vice Speaker scowled at the display. “Assuming the fleet really was destroyed, or at least crippled, where do we stand?”
“We lose,” Admiral Morrígan said, simply. “The best we could hope for, under the circumstances, would be becoming an Alphan Protectorate. Again. The worst ... total occupation, perhaps even total extermination. The Pashtali have shown a frightening lack of regard for interstellar law and civilised norms, sir, and they might assume they can get away with attempted genocide. Some humans would survive, we think, but as nothing more than a scavenger race. We wouldn’t be able to rebuild in a hurry.”
Travis swallowed. “I see.”
“There’s no way to sugar-coat it,” Admiral Morrígan said. “We staked everything on one roll of the dice. We are committed.”
“And there’s no way to back out, not without surrendering,” Travis said. “Right?”
“Effectively so,” Hawthorne agreed. “If we want a protector, we’ll have to offer them more than goodwill.”
“We also need to shore up our financial situation,” Zoe Walker said. The Finance Minister looked around the table, her eyes grim. “We are dependent, right now, on loans from various interstellar powers. If it looks like we’ll be unable to repay those loans, they’ll start calling them in. And then the economy will be fucked.”
“So we don’t pay,” Travis said. “We are in the middle of a war. We can refuse to hand over anything we need for our defence.”
“Which will make it harder to get loans in the future,” Zoe snapped. “The interstellar bankers rely on trust, sir, and confidence their debtors will repay them. If we refuse to pay our debts, or hand over the collateral, they will see us as a bad risk and then they’ll simply decline to loan us anything more.”
“We may not live another year,” Travis said.
Abraham barely heard the argument. The stakes had already been high, but now they were stratospheric. There was no way to know what had really happened ... he wished, suddenly, for verifiable data even if it proved that Admiral Yagami and her fleet had been blown to dust. At least he’d know what happened ... right now, he and his team were faced with making policy blind, without any solid awareness of what had really happened to the fleet. The only good sign was that the Pashtali hadn’t demanded their immediate surrender or else. It was a hint, at least, that Admiral Morrígan and her analysts were correct and the fleet had survived the engagement. But he dared not rely on it.
If they know how many ships we had, prior to the engagement, they’ll know how big a chunk they tore out of our navy, he thought, numbly. They might decide they can wage war on the rest of their neighbours first, then turn their attention back to us. We couldn’t rebuild in time to meet them.
“Mr. Speaker,” Zoe said. “We have to pay our debts.”
“And we will, if we can,” Abraham said. “Remind the bankers that we may be all standing between their homeworlds and the Pashtali.”
