Shadow of Freedom

“In addition to the actual increase in manpower and eventual overall education and training levels, however, the sort of programs we’re proposing should also contribute to the Quadrant’s sense of solidarity and unity and that, after all, is one reason for the Guard’s existence in the first place. We all know this is still a new political unit. We’re all still…settling down with one another, and the threat of outside attack is generating a lot of fully justified anxiety and uncertainty. We believe—I believe—that directly involving as many as possible of our citizens in their own self-defense will be the best antidote for that anxiety. We’re not proposing this as any sort of placebo. If it succeeds as well as we believe it can, it will contribute materially to our ability to defend the Quadrant and probably to the overall defensive strength of the Star Empire outside the Quadrant. For that matter, I personally would strongly oppose any dispersal of effort that wouldn’t contribute to that ability and combat strength. I’m simply pointing out that it could contribute in more ways than one.”

There was silence for several seconds, then Prime Minister Alquezar looked at Baroness Medusa.

“I’m inclined to endorse Admiral Khumalo’s and Admiral Gold Peak’s proposals, Madame Governor. I know Henri’s already had considerable input into them, and while I’d like the opportunity to read over the details for myself, I have the greatest respect for both Admiral Khumalo’s and Admiral Gold Peak’s judgment. With your concurrence, I’d like to suggest we authorize them to begin organizing to deploy Admiral Gold Peak’s units as they’ve proposed and that you and I review those details with an eye towards giving them a firm approval—and requesting the Quadrant Parliament’s approval for the necessary funding, of course—within the next two days.”

“That seems perfectly reasonable to me, Mr. Prime Minister,” Medusa agreed. “And that ought to give everyone else involved”—she allowed her own gaze to slew sideways to Lababibi, Clark, and Westman for a moment—“enough time to review them and put forward any suggestions they might care to make, as well.”

“In that case,” Alquezar said with a somewhat crooked smile, “I propose we adjourn. I’ll see all of you at the War Cabinet meeting Wednesday, I’m sure. By which time, no doubt, the ghost of Murphy will have visited yet another crisis upon us.”

Chapter Eight

“You know,” Michelle Henke said thoughtfully, tipped back in her chair with her feet propped somewhat inelegantly on the coffee table, “these Sollies are beginning to severely piss me off.”

“No, really?” Captain Cynthia Lecter raised her eyebrows. “I find that difficult to believe, Ma’am.”

Michelle chuckled, although the sound was a bit sour, then glanced up as Chris Billingsley appeared with Lecter’s whiskey glass and Michelle’s own bottle of beer. Over the years, she’d developed a pronounced preference for Honor Harrington’s favorite Old Tillman. In fact, her friend had actually converted her to the barbarism of drinking it chilled, and she smiled as she accepted the cold bottle from her steward, then made a face as Dicey hopped up into her lap. The cat landed with a pronounced thump, butted her chest twice with his broad, scarred head, then settled down possessively with a deep, rumbling purr.

“This monster is your cat, isn’t it, Chris?” she demanded.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Billingsley acknowledged imperturbably.

“I just wondered,” she said, rubbing Dicey between the ears in token of abject surrender. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

“You’re welcome, Ma’am.” Billingsley smiled benignly and withdrew, and Michelle shook her head and returned her attention to Khumalo.

“As I was saying, these Sollies are beginning to get on my nerves. And I wish to hell I understood what Dueñas thinks he’s going to accomplish with this.”

“Assuming our information about what he’s supposed to’ve done is correct, of course, Ma’am,” Lecter pointed out.

“I realize we have to keep our minds open to all possibilities, Cynthia, but say that again with a straight face,” Michelle challenged. “Just what mistake have the Sollies passed up making that would encourage that sort of optimism?”

“I can’t think of one right off hand,” Lecter acknowledged, “but that’s not to say they couldn’t have avoided at least one somewhere without our noticing.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not inclined to believe it was in Saltash.”

Michelle’s tone was darker, her expression less amused, and her chief of staff nodded in less than delighted agreement.

Michelle nodded back and sipped beer, continuing to rub Dicey’s head, as she contemplated the latest unpleasant decision to land on her desk.

I suppose we’re lucky Lörscher was on his way to Montana anyway and decided to share the news with us, she thought.