House of Steel: The Honorverse Companion Read online

  Sir Abner Laidlaw, the Baron of Castle Rock, on the other hand, was the First Lord of Admiralty which, given the Navy’s primacy, made him the civilian cabinet officer responsible for the Star Kingdom’s overall military posture. He was two T-decades younger than Truman, and he’d been Queen Samantha’s choice for his present position for several reasons. She’d had to fight hard against entrenched opposition in the House of Lords, where an unlikely alliance of the Conservative Association and the Liberal Party had viewed him with dark suspicion. His earlier career as an intelligence officer, rising at last to head the Special Intelligence Service, would have been enough to make the Liberals distrust him. The fact that as a junior analyst he’d been one of the first to point out the shift in Havenite military spending only confirmed that distrust, and somehow people like Second Space Lord Havinghurst—who, as a far from junior analyst at ONI, had brushed off his “inconclusive and alarmist” analyses—weren’t all that fond of him either. Nor did the Conservative Association, whose members’ spinal reflex opposition to anything that threatened the stability of their own star nation—and their position within it—take kindly to the suggestion that it might be wise to start mucking about with that stability in the name of defensive preparedness. Besides, ships cost money. The Conservatives were against spending money on general principles, and the Liberals had all sorts of deserving social programs in direct competition with any increased military spending. The fact that quite a few of those deserving social programs had been inspired by progressive Havenite notions before the Republic’s fiscal wheels started coming off only made them even more mulishly opposed to building up the Navy in the face of a purported Havenite threat.

  Can’t very well go around admitting their inspiration is in the process of turning Conquistador on them, can they? Roger thought with an edge of bitterness. Why, that would require them to engage in at least twenty or thirty seconds of actual critical thought! God only knows where that might end!

  He knew he was being at least a little unfair, but he didn’t really care. Most members of the Conservative Association were a selfish, small-minded waste of perfectly good oxygen, as far as he was concerned. He had much more sympathy for the rank-and-file members of the Liberal Party, but their refusal to look beyond their own narrow political horizons was eroding that steadily. Marisa Turner, the Earl of New Kiev’s older daughter, was a case in point. The only thing wrong with her brain, in Roger’s opinion, was her refusal to actually use it, yet her birth, her wealth, and her father’s position in the party meant she was inevitably going to become one of the Liberals’ leaders over the next ten or fifteen T-years, and she flatly refused to admit Haven could possibly have any territorial interests outside its immediate astrographic neighborhood. Which was, after all the better part of three light-centuries from the Manticore Binary System!

  “It’s going to be a little tricky, however we come at it,” he told his mother. “Truman would love to see me dirt-side and out of uniform. If you bring it up with him, he’ll jump at the opportunity to accomplish just that, and if we fight him on it, we’ll be just as guilty of using patronage to get what we want as someone like Janacek or Low Delhi. But if Laidlaw makes the suggestion, it’ll automatically put Truman’s back up as yet another example of ‘civilian interference’ in the Service’s internal affairs. He might go as far as making his opposition to that interference part of the public record. And even if he didn’t do that, I wouldn’t be surprised if he—or Havinghurst—leaked the fact that he and Spruance had been pressured by Laidlaw. At which point, the idiots in the Conservative Association and the Liberals who already don’t like Sir Abner will start demanding all sorts of Parliamentary inquiries into it.”

  “Like everyone else isn’t using family pull to get what they want?” Caitrin demanded, and Roger shrugged.

  “I’m not in Mom’s league as a politician yet, Katie, but since when has consistency dared to rear its ugly head where partisan politics are concerned? They don’t care what their friends and families may be doing, but they’ll scream to high heaven about Laidlaw’s seeming to do it in my case if it lets them embarrass him.”

  “Roger’s right, Caitrin,” Samantha said, looking approvingly upon her son. “And don’t overlook the possibility of embarrassing me, at least indirectly, as well. They won’t come right out and say it, but anything they can use as an obstacle for those ‘alarmist’ policies I’m trying to ‘ram through’ without due respect for their own august views would be like manna from heaven.”

  “There’s a reason I really, really don’t want to have anything more to do with politics than I have to,” Caitrin said sourly.

  “Not an option, in our case, I’m afraid, Sis.”

  Roger’s eyes were sympathetic, but his voice was firm before he turned back to their mother.

  “Actually, I think the best way to do this might be to approach Sir William very quietly,” he said.

  Samantha cocked her head, eyebrows rising inquisitively, and he shrugged.

  “I’m not saying Sir William isn’t half convinced that I’m at least a third as much of an alarmist as Truman thinks I am, but he’s also at least a little more receptive. And the truth is, it would make a lot of sense for him to come to the same view Sir Casper’s come to. I think if he was properly approached he might be willing to claim ownership of the idea and play godfather for it.”

  “Really?” Samantha sounded just a bit skeptical, and Roger smiled.

  Rear Admiral of the Green Sir William Spruance was Fifth Space Lord, the head of the Bureau of Personnel. As such, he’d have to sign off on any reassignment, especially one which cut short a programmed tour of command for someone as . . . visible as a member of the Winton dynasty, no matter where the idea for it had come from. And if he proposed the change, it would be impossible for Truman—or anyone else—to blame it on Laidlaw.

  “I have reason to believe he’s at least a bit more sympathetic to my wild-eyed lunacy than Sir Frederick,” Roger said. “Captain Wyeth’s his chief of staff these days. He’s been, ah, priming the pump a bit for me, I think. And if I very quietly suggested to Pablo that it might be a good idea to have the heir to the throne closer to hand, and if he suggested it to Sir William, and if Sir William suggested it to Truman, well—”

  He shrugged, and his mother nodded. Slowly at first, then with increasing approval.

  “I see your father was right when he said you’d learn plenty about politics and infighting with the Fleet.” She stopped nodding and smiled a bit bittersweetly, remembering her husband. Then she shook herself and her eyes narrowed as she contemplated her son. “On the other hand, why do I have the feeling you’re planning to hit more than one bird with that particular rock?”

  “Because you know me so well.” His own smile was fleeting, but it was also much closer to a grin. “If I have to give up Daimyo, then I know what I want instead, and I think we can probably convince Sir William to give it to me.”

  “And that would be what, precisely?”

  “Well, I don’t want a dirt-side command, that’s for sure. And I’m sorry, Mom, but I’d cut my throat if they tried to stick me in BuPlan.”

  His shudder was only partly feigned. Vice Admiral Bethany Havinghurst, as head of the Bureau of Planning, also headed ONI, which meant she was responsible for the intelligence analyses Admiral Truman used to justify his emphasis on Silesia, instead of worrying about “the remote possibility” that the People’s Republic might someday become a threat to the Star Kingdom. The possibility of becoming a staff weenie shuffling papers somewhere in the bowels of BuPlan—and with an idiot like Edward Janacek as his direct superior—held no appeal at all.

  “That’s what you don’t want,” his mother observed. “What is it you do want, dear?”

  “BuWeaps,” he said, and his voice was suddenly very, very serious. “Lomax isn’t who I’d have chosen to head BuWeaps, Mom, but she’s at least a little more open-minded than Truman or Havinghurst. I think she’s too
conservative in her approach, under the circumstances, but she’s not part of the ‘old boy and girl network’ the way Truman and Low Delhi are. I’d like to get more hands-on experience with our R and D programs, and BuWeaps is small enough—way too small, in fact, given what’s going on—that a lieutenant commander would be at least a moderately middle-sized fish. I think I could actually do some good over there.”

  “More than at BuShips?” Samantha asked shrewdly.

  “Lots more than at BuShips.” Roger grimaced. “Low Delhi’s an idiot. Or his policy recommendations are idiotic, at any rate.”

  That wasn’t something he could have said to a fellow Navy officer, of course, nor was it anything he’d ever say in public, but that didn’t make it untrue. Third Space Lord Robert Hemphill, the Baron of Low Delhi, headed the Bureau of Ships, responsible for the construction and maintenance of the Navy’s space stations and vessels, and he did not respond well to criticism, however constructive.

  “In fairness, I don’t suppose he’s any more of an idiot than a few other senior officers I could name,” he continued. “The problem is he’s got too much invested on a personal and a professional level in the building policies Truman’s been driving for the last several T-years. He’s not going to recommend any radical changes, and BuShips is too damned big. I’d disappear into it and never be seen again—professionally speaking, that is—until my coronation!”

  “And you really think you could have some influence with Lomax?”

  “I think it’s at least possible,” Roger replied. “Like I say, Dame Carrie’s a little too conservative for my tastes, but I understand why she is. In fact, in some ways I have to agree with her.”

  “Excuse me?” His mother sat back in her chair, and Magnus bleeked a laugh as he tasted her emotions. “You actually agree with one of the space lords?”

  “I did say ‘in some ways,’” he pointed out with a smile. “And the truth is, Mom, none of them are malevolent, ill-intentioned manipulators. I’ll admit I don’t much like Truman, and I think Havinghurst is too much of a brown-noser where he’s concerned, but he’s absolutely sincere in what he believes the Navy’s requirements are. Low Delhi’s more concerned about keeping his skirts clean than I’d like—or than someone who’s attained his superiority needs to be, for that matter. I mean, my God, the man’s Third Space Lord! It’s not like his career’s going to turn into a dismal failure if he should slip up and do something innovative for a change. But despite that, I think his positions are sincere and I don’t doubt that he’d put patriotism above career if he were genuinely convinced the situation required it. The problem is that he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with the situation, and nobody’s going to be able to change his mind about it, as far as I can see.

  “As for Countess Mailey, she’s doing an excellent job at BuMed. I don’t think anyone could complain about her. Earl Three Pines is too much in lockstep with Truman over at the BuTrain, but that’s inevitable. The First Space Lord has the overriding voice when it comes to formulating operational and strategic doctrine, and that’s the way it ought to be, however . . . inconvenient I personally may find it at the moment. And I actually like Sir William.”

  “Well, that’s nice to hear,” Samantha said dryly. “But what’s this business about agreeing with Lomax?”

  “Mom,” Roger’s voice turned suddenly very serious, “you know how much I’ve been thinking about this ever since the intelligence types started warning us about Haven. And the truth is that just like I said in that first letter to the Proceedings, we can’t go toe-to-toe with the kind of navy Nouveau Paris can build if it really puts its mind to it. We’re a hell of a lot richer on a per-capita basis than almost anyone else in the galaxy, but we just not big enough, and unless we want to start conquering people ourselves, there’s no way we’re going to get big enough in the time I’m afraid we’ve got.”

  His mouth twisted as if he’d bitten into something sour.

  “We’ve got what’s probably the biggest, most efficient single-system shipbuilding infrastructure in known space, but it’s overwhelmingly oriented around building civilian ships for private owners. Hephaestus and Vulcan can churn out freighters like nobody’s business, but we don’t have the scale of military building capacity Haven’s already built up, and all of your reports suggest they’re still increasing that capacity when we haven’t even started increasing ours yet. And even if that weren’t true, they’re getting bigger with every system they gobble up. Even with the BLS’ drain on their economy, they’ll probably be able to lay down at least twice as many ships as we’ll be able to, especially when we’re stuck with peacetime budgetary constraints and they’re already operating on a wartime footing.”

  Samantha’s expression had darkened with every word her son said. Not because she disagreed with him, but because she couldn’t disagree with him.

  “I absolutely agree with what you and Sir Abner are trying to do,” he continued. “We’ve got to build up our wall of battle, but even if Parliament was willing to give you the budgets you’re asking for, we still couldn’t match the Peoples’ Navy’s numbers. That means we’ve got to have qualitative superiority, and enough of it to offset their numerical superiority. I realize that’s why Sir Abner’s pushing for superdreadnoughts, although I don’t think he’s going to get them yet. Not with Truman still arguing about the need for increasing numbers of medium-weight platforms for Silesia and commerce protection and the Conservatives and Liberals denying Haven poses any sort of credible threat. So as far as I can see, we’ve got to find a way besides sheer tonnage to give us that qualitative edge, which is why I say Dame Carrie’s more conservative than I’d really like. I think we need to be pushing the envelope, working to find some kind of technological equalizer, and she’s not really in favor of blue-sky concepts.

  “But I understand why she isn’t, and it’s hard to blame her. The Proceedings did an interview with her a few months back, talking about the Samothrace’s weapons suite, and she said something very interesting. ‘A ship-of-the-wall is too important, too big a financial investment and too big a piece of our Navy’s combat potential, to be an experiment.’” He looked at his mother across the table. “She’s not about to go haring off after some elusive, technological silver bullet. Some sort of . . . of panacea, I suppose. Not unless and until she’s convinced it’s going to be a significant improvement on what she’s already got, at any rate. With the Star Kingdom’s military security at risk, it’s her job to avoid buying into a fleet mix that turns out not to work, and she takes that seriously. But she’s also still wedded to the notion that one lonely little star system can’t possibly be capable of pushing R and D farther and faster than something like the Solarian League. That’s why she’s continuing the policy—the long-standing policy, to be fair; she’s not the one who originated it—of emulating the SLN instead of pushing the envelope right here at home.”

  “And you seriously think we could push ‘farther and faster’ than the League?” Samantha asked.

  “I think we damned well better find out whether or not we can, Mom,” Roger said grimly. “I think we need to increase BuWeaps’ R and D funding. I think we need to find the best talent we can to look at every conceivable way we can improve our war-fighting capability. I think we need to keep it as ‘black’ as possible while we do it. And I think that if we can’t come up with some kind of ‘equalizer,’ then in the end, we’re screwed, no matter what happens.”

  September 1850 PD

  “I’M SURE YOU CAN UNDERSTAND why I might have a few . . . reservations about this particular routine personnel transfer, Commander,” Dame Carrie Lomax said dryly. Lomax was in her early sixties, her red hair going steadily gray, and her blue eyes were shrewd as she contemplated the newest addition to her command. “I can understand why it might have seemed like a good idea to Earl Mortenson and even to Admiral Spruance. I’m not too sure it’s going to be a good idea from my perspective, however.”

  �
�I beg your pardon, Ma’am?” Roger Winton said respectfully, standing in front of her desk with Monroe on his shoulder.

  “Just between the two of us, it’s going to be difficult for most of my people to forget who your mother is, Commander Winton.” Lomax leaned back in her chair. “Speaking for myself, I find your insistence on being treated like any other Queen’s officer laudable, but I doubt there’s much point pretending that everyone around you is really going to think you’re just one more lieutenant commander. And that leads me to all of the waves I can’t help thinking you’re likely to send scudding across my own personal hot tub here at BuWeaps.”

  “It’s not my intention to make waves, Ma’am. In fact—”

  “Please.” She raised one hand, interrupting him. “I didn’t fall off the produce shuttle yesterday, Commander. And that wasn’t intended as a criticism, really. But I have read your letters in the Proceedings, as well as reviewing your file, and your performance reports, and the systems critiques and analyses in your end-of-commission reports. With all of that rattling around in the back of my mind, I can’t quite convince myself that Sir William just decided out of a clear blue sky that BuWeaps was the ideal place to put you. And that suggests to my naturally suspicious personality that someone else might have suggested to him. Which, Commander”—she eyed him very levelly—“brings me back to you.”

  Roger Winton didn’t need the tip of the treecat’s tail brushing very gently against his lower back or the true-hand resting lightly on the top of his head for balance to realize he’d underestimated Admiral Lomax rather badly. He thought hard for a moment, then shrugged.