Netlink (37 page)

Now Vic was standing in the office of
Chujo
Haruo Tanaka aboard the flagship
Shinryu.
One entire bulkhead was an impressive viewall that looked now into the nebula, a vast, blue and white translucency cold against the stars. Ships—DalRiss star-shapes, and the long, cluttered, spearpoints of the ryu carriers—were silhouetted against curtains of pale light.

Tanaka looked pale, stressed to the breaking point. Vic sat in a low, swivel chair across the room, studying the man. He’d shuttled across to the expedition’s flagship from the
Karyu
rather than using a comm module. The news from home was grave enough that a
personal
visit was required, and he’d needed to talk to the man in private before the scheduled gathering of the fleet’s senior officers.

“Two stars,” Tanaka said, shaking his head in disbelief. He stood before the viewall, hands clasped behind his back. “Two stars brighter and larger than our own, simply
exploded.…
”

“And ten billion DalRiss snuffed out,” Vic added, “apparently without even a nod from the Web.”

“Horrifying.”

“The question is, sir, what are you going to do about it?”

Tanaka turned from the viewall. “Do? You are no doubt aware that I have just received new orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Those orders are quite clear, General. We are to return to the Shichiju at once.”

Vic nodded. He’d expected no less. That was why he’d wanted to grab Tanaka first, before the staff meeting, to talk to him.

To
convince
him.

“Sir,” Vic said. “With all due respect, this may be one time when duty requires that we ignore our orders. At least for the moment.”

“Duty never countenances disobedience.”

“Even when obedience clearly leads to defeat? Admiral, I submit that this campaign is far too important to let the bureaucrats run it from home.”

There was a supreme irony in this, Vic thought. Until now, the commander of a starfleet was completely on his own once he left his home system; headquarters depended on couriers for periodic reports on his progress, and those could usually be dispatched at the commander’s convenience. He had to answer for his decisions when he returned,
if
he returned, but at least he didn’t have his superiors second-guessing those decisions every step of the way. The quantum communications net might be the most important development in space military tactics since the development of the K-T drive, but it could also end up crippling innovation and the initiative of individual leaders.

Maybe the Web had the better idea after all, ignoring faster-than-light communication and the nullheaded bureaucratic idiocy of tightly controlled central planning in military operations. He remembered the conversation aboard the
Gauss
with his family, a short time before. If warfare someday did become a clean, antiseptic exercise in pure tactics, the rear-area kibitzers and chair warmers and bureaucrats could become the soldiers of the future, teleoperating their war machines across interstellar distances.

There would be no reining in the horror of war then, when there were no soldiers right
there
to experience the horror firsthand, or the danger. What would someone like Munimori care about another dozen cities wiped out, more or less?

Or worlds, for that matter.…

Tanaka considered Vic for a long moment through narrowed eyes. “I am a soldier,” he said after a time. “I believe that I have a responsibility to use my own judgment in the field… but I also bear the responsibility of duty. I see no clear alternatives here.”

“Our first duty is to protect the Shichiju, all the worlds of humanity, from the threat we’ve perceived in the Web. Right?”

“Yes.”

“But we’re not going to be able to do that if we scamper back home.”

“Tell me more, Hagan-
san.”

Haruo Tanaka, Vic knew from the man’s official biography, was one of the more innovative and inventive of the Imperium’s naval commanders. He’d started in the marines, a war-strider jacking a
Daimyo
during the revolution. He’d switched over to the Imperial Navy after the war ended, eventually rising to the rank of
shosho
—the equivalent of a Confederation rear admiral—and the command of the commanding officer of the ryu carrier
Funryu.

Five years ago he’d been promoted to
chujo
—vice admiral—and given command of the Third Provincial Fleet, but he’d lost that command, and a certain amount of status, by advocating the complete overhaul of the Imperial Navy’s current tactics. Ryu carriers, he claimed, were anachronisms; the future of naval warfare belonged to smaller, more maneuverable vessels, operating under widely distributed and detached independent commands.

Vic wasn’t sure what twistings of Imperial politics had put Tanaka back in favor and in command of the AEF. Possibly it represented a rearrangement of the current political alignments back on Earth. Or possibly the command had been seen as a way of getting him out from underfoot. Either way, he would have plenty of Imperial Naval staff officers, from Munimori on down, all looking carefully over his shoulder.

And with the I2C, that constant inspection must become damned near microscopic at times.

“Your orders are for us to report where? Earth?”

“Earth’s solar system is being covered by the First Fleet,” Tanaka said carefully. “Under the command of
Gensui
Munimori himself. We are to return to 26 Draconis.” He seemed to be measuring Vic’s response to his words, watching for fear or anger. “The Imperial Staff feels that the New American system might be facing the greatest threat of attack, since it is on the very fringe of human-occupied space and in the same general direction as Alya.”

“Uh-huh. Right.”

Vic’s tone was sarcastic. It was entirely possible that this sudden change of orders was part of some larger plan, a plan that had nothing to do at all with the Web except for using it as an excuse. With the Imperial fleet concentrated and at full war preparedness, it would be so easy to take over all of the nominally independent states scattered along the Shichiju’s border.…

“Look. You’ve seen the same reports, the same records I have. You know what the Web is like. What the
threat
is like. You know that if you’re there protecting 26 Draconis, the Web could just as easily strike somewhere else. Even the Imperial Navy isn’t big enough to protect all of the Shichiju’s worlds. Especially if the Imperial Command Staff is more interested in settling old scores than it is in stopping the Web.”

That last was a guess, but a reasonable one. The fact that an out-of-favor officer had been placed in command of the expeditionary force strongly suggested that Tenno Kyuden’s attention was focused on other interests just now. The negotiations of the past few weeks that had led to the creation of the AEF could well have been a sham, a way of slipping in and grabbing lost territories in a practically bloodless coup.

He also knew that Tanaka was both a good officer and a brilliant tactician, not the sort of man to turn his back on the real threat just to take part in the petty politics of Empire.

“Politics,” Tanaka said, closing his eyes, “and politicians are the bane of soldiers.” He opened his eyes, impassive again. “Believe me when I say I’ve already argued exhaustively that we should continue the mission. To no avail.”

“Then disobey the bastards.”

Tanaka blinked. “Unthinkable.”

“Not at all. I can think about it all day. So can you.” He sighed.
How
to shake this guy loose from a position wedged in by training, obedience, and duty?
“Chujosan,
are the orders for you alone? Your people? Or do they extend to the Confederation force as well?”

“The wording could be considered ambiguous,” Tanaka replied, “but I take it to mean all vessels and personnel currently under my command. That would include you and your people as well. I am in command of this force.”

“Of course.
Tenno Kyuden
doesn’t want a Confederation warfleet bouncing around loose.” Vic carefully scrutinized his fingernails, not meeting Tanaka’s level gaze. “Sir, I have a different interpretation of my orders. I tell you now, honestly and directly, that if you order me to return to human space, I will disobey those orders. You cannot attack us here without having your ships released by their DalRiss carriers, obviously. Long before your ships were free,
my
ships and
my
DalRiss transporters would be long gone.”

“You could not face the Web by yourself. It would be suicide!”

“At least we can try.” He nodded toward the viewall. “The enemy’s out there,
Chujosan.
The Web. I am taking my people to meet it, and every human in the Shichiju who can link onto the I2C-Net is going to be watching what happens out there. I wonder what the citizens of the Empire are going to say when they see their Imperial defenders leaving their defense to a handful of Confederation warships. If we win, we will be the saviors of all mankind. If we lose,
you
will be perceived as the villain who cut and ran and abandoned us to death, no matter what your orders might say. There’s something more to it that you might consider, too. Have you discussed with the DalRiss the idea of returning to the Shichiju? Have you asked if they’ll even take you?”

Tanaka’s eyes widened. “The… DalRiss? No. That did not occur to me. Why wouldn’t they?”

“Mmm. You might give it a try. Link in and talk to the DalRiss bossing this cityship, the one piggybacking the
Shinryu.
You could find that they have something else in mind besides retreating to human space. Remember, they have a stake in the expedition, too. Ten billion murdered fellow-dancers.” Vic crossed his arms as he leaned back in the chair. In fact, when Vic had tried talking to them a short time ago, he hadn’t been able to ascertain what the DalRiss thought about the news from home. They certainly didn’t think in terms of vengeance. The closest human emotion he could attribute to them now was one of stunned disbelief… and just possibly a sense of urgency about the need to complete the mission before more worlds died. Obviously, though, Tanaka hadn’t questioned them closely yet. It gave Vic a very slight edge in the bloodless war of words and position being waged now between them. “Right now,
Chujosan,
we’re about two thousand light years from home. Do you think you have supplies enough laid in for a trek back the long way, through K-T space? At a light year per day, that’s a five-and-a-half year trip. That’s a long time. A lot could happen in five years.”

The admiral’s expression went stony, an indifference masking whatever he was truly feeling. “Are you threatening me,
Shoshosan?”

“Not at all.” A direct threat, a blatant challenge of Tanaka’s authority, would make him lose face and would force him into a corner where his only option might be to harden his stance, whatever the consequences. “I just want to be certain that you see all options, and all positions. I point out that, should you decide that I’m right, that our common goal should be to defeat the Web at Nova Aquila, rather than playing catchup with them across human space. You have options that would allow you to… let’s say
reinterpret
your superiors’ orders. You could continue to Nova Aquila because the DalRiss refused to take you back. That could be humiliating, I know, admitting that you’d been carried off by a
gaijin,
but I doubt that Admiral Munimori is willing to link personally with a DalRiss to hear it himself. If you prefer, tell them that we refused to go back with you, and that you felt it necessary to keep an eye on us.”

Tanaka stared at Vic for a long time, his face completely impassive. Finally, though, he rocked back on his heels and gave the Confederation general a small, tight-lipped smile. “You are very good at this.”

A direct answer, yes or no, would have been out of place. Vic bowed his head slightly in reply, neither affirming nor denying.

“It will be… difficult,” Tanaka continued. “This electronic gathering I have called, it is to be transferred to Earth. To the Tenno Kyuden. I expect that
Gensui
Munimori himself will attend. To refuse such a person to his face—”

“He is two thousand light years away,
Chujosan.
If necessary, do what we do when our superiors are breathing down our necks.”

“What is that?”

Vic smiled. “Feign communications difficulties.”

The admiral smiled in reply. “I will consider that.”

The interview was ended. Vic stood, bowed, and turned toward the door.

“General,” Tanaka said as Vic reached out to palm the door open.

“Sir?”

“I think you should know… for your own information only. I had a son. Age twenty-eight. He was a lieutenant in command of an Imperial Marine company, stationed at Syria Planum, on Kasei. A few months ago, he was aboard one of four transports over the Marineris Sea, responding with his unit to an attack by raiders.
Confederation
raiders. All four transports were destroyed. Every man aboard them was killed.”

“Why are you telling me this,
Chujosan?”

“I have reason to hate your people, General. I have reason to hate the military service you represent. But I believe in what we have been sent out here to do. I believe in it so much, that I have disregarded what happened on Kasei. At least for now. I thought you should know.”

“I already knew, Admiral. I picked up as much from your dossier, before we left New America.”

“And you agreed to accept service under my command despite this?”

“Of all of the Imperial senior officers who might have been chosen to command, you were by far the best. That is not flattery, Admiral, but a simple statement of fact. And I will tell
you,
sir, that my wife, my son, and my daughter are all serving with the Confederation contingent of this fleet. And I intend to take that contingent to Nova Aquila, whether I have your ships at my back or not.”