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“Tell me something,” Roland said, as he stared down at the map. “How does the Commandant handle all the details himself?”
“He doesn’t.” Rachel looked up at him and smiled. “He has a staff. He has people who take his vague concepts - invade that planet, defeat that enemy - and turn them into workable, practical, plans. Most of them have served themselves, certainly long enough to understand the realities on the ground. The Commandant doesn’t have to let himself get bogged down in detail, or spend his time micromanaging his subordinates.”
“He has people to do it for him,” Roland muttered. “I need a bigger staff, don’t I?”
“Yes,” Rachel agreed. “But you don’t have the people you need.”
Roland couldn’t disagree. The last six weeks - the timetable had slipped, then slipped again - had been hectic. He’d brought units back from Mountebank, giving his soldiers leave before preparing them to return to the fray; he’d watched newer soldiers graduate, then get assigned to units that would - hopefully - teach them what the DIs hadn’t before they learnt the hard way. He’d inspected tanks and aircraft, rolling off the production lines, and watched drivers and pilots as they put their vehicles through their paces. And he’d checked and rechecked the growing wet-navy fleet, preparing itself for the next offensive.
And I don’t have enough people capable of handling the planning, he reminded himself, sourly. We need to build up a bigger logistics staff.
They’d spent the last two weeks running drills, the first turning into a disaster so great that - if the bullets had been real - the defeat would have been near-total. It was galling to realise the only thing standing between him and total defeat was his own shortage of shipping, but ... the only upside, as far as he could tell, was that the shock had convinced his people they needed to work harder too. They’d studied the results carefully, determined what had gone wrong and done their best to fix it, although they wouldn’t know how well they’d done until they went into battle. The rebels knew they were coming. Roland would bet his title, whatever it was worth now, that they were already laying their plans to defeat him.
“We won’t have the advantage of surprise this time,” he said, sourly. “They’ll see us coming well before we reach our target.”
“Perhaps not,” Rachel agreed. “But we can keep them guessing about our final destination.”
Roland eyed her suspiciously, wondering if she was trying to cheer him up. The rebels weren’t stupid. They’d have no trouble at all narrowing down the list of possible targets, and the forces to defend all three of them. He’d done his best to spread rumours about his plans to hit Rolleston, a lie which had the great advantage of being plausible, but he feared the rebels wouldn’t buy it. Even if they did, they might try to defend other possible targets too. His plans assumed they’d have no advantage of surprise whatsoever.
“If we can get ashore in force, we should be able to secure the industrial facilities,” he said, tiredly. He’d said the same to the war council, time and time again. “And then we can start putting an end to the war.”
“Perhaps,” Rachel agreed. She looked concerned. “Do you still intend to hold the command conference this afternoon?”
Roland hesitated, then nodded. New Doncaster’s wet navy lacked both holoconference projectors and the secure datanet required to use them. The command conference would be his last chance to meet his subordinates in person, before the fleet set sail for rebel territory and destiny. It would be the last time he could shake their hands, gauge their true feelings and - in confidence - address any concerns they might have, concerns they wouldn’t want to put on the record. The PM had wanted to hold a farewell ceremony, but Roland - and Lord Ludlow, oddly - had objected. There was no point in letting the rebels know they were coming any sooner than strictly necessary.
Don’t delude yourself, he told himself. You may have staggered the departure times, so it looks like a number of ships leaving alone rather than in convoy, but you’re not going to fool anyone for long.
“Get some rest now.” Rachel met his eyes. “You’ve done all you can do, given the limitations you’re facing. Go back to your bedroom, spend some time in bed - with Sandra, if she’s around. And awake fresh and rested for the conference.”
Roland nodded, tiredly. It was easy to forget, at times, that Rachel was a far more experienced soldier than he was. And at other times ... he sighed as he stumbled to his feet, his body crying out for coffee or sleep. There were just too many things to do, too many glitches in the supply lines that required his personal attention, too many problems that could only be sorted out by himself. He scowled as he recalled the discovery, too late, that an underpaid bureaucrat had sold a crate of weapons and training supplies to the rebels, a crate that had never been recovered. It wasn’t a major loss, but it had undermined his position at the worst possible time.
He forced himself to keep going until he was back in his bedroom, staring at his bed as if it represented paradise. It was just a camp bed, rough and primitive compared to the four-poster bed he recalled from his childhood, but it was infinitively superior to conditions in the field. He’d made sure no one, neither army officers nor naval captains, received anything beyond the basics. Giving superior officers luxuries denied to the men was just asking for trouble.
Roland heard someone behind him and turned. Sandra stood there, looking wary. Roland guessed Rachel had called her and wondered, wryly, what she’d said. Rachel had never approved of Sandra, pointing out her seduction had been too corny to be real and that she was probably reporting back to her father. Roland didn’t doubt it, but still ... he had to look bad, he supposed, if Rachel was calling Sandra to take care of him. He could barely keep his eyes open.
“Bed,” Sandra said, closing the door behind her. “Now.”
Roland muttered something - he wasn’t sure what he’d said - and collapsed into the sheets, the bed shifting underneath him. There had been times when he’d had trouble sleeping, when he’d been a little prince, but now ... darkness swept over him, sending him plunging down into dreams. He was vaguely aware of her presence, yet ... it felt like hours before a pinging sound yanked him out of sleep. Sandra was lying next to him, reading a datapad. Roland was so dazed it took him a moment to realise it was his terminal that was bleeping.
His fingers mashed the buttons. “Yes?”
“I’ve postponed the command conference for two hours, as Admiral Forest has orders to report to the war council,” Rachel said. “Have a shower, eat something, then report to the briefing room at 1900.”
Roland had to smile. “Yes, boss.”
Sandra blinked at him. “You let her talk to you like that?”
“She’s right,” Roland said, although he knew it wasn’t anything like enough of an explanation. As far as anyone on the base knew, Rachel was just his aide. Richard was the only person who knew more and he’d been cautioned not to discuss it. “And we have served together long enough for her to tease me a little.”
He stood, then hastily removed his uniform. His fingers still felt numb, forcing him to concentrate on doing something he could normally have done automatically. He didn’t want her to try to help him, not now. Instead, she started to undress herself. Roland watched, feeling oddly conflicted, as she stripped. It felt wonderful and yet ... it felt as if she was just playing a role. Normally, it wouldn’t have bothered him. Now ...
“You will come back, won’t you?” Sandra kissed him as he mounted her, wrapping her arms around him. “Won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best,” Roland promised. “I should be fine.”
Sandra didn’t seem convinced as she pulled him to her. Roland tried to lose himself in her, to forget his woes as he moved inside her. He’d learnt to be a little cold about sex, after discovering there was nothing like being the heir to the throne to make you attractive to women, but ... he thought, for the first time, that Sandra was giving her all to him. The cynical part of his mind wondered if she thought she’d gone too far. Did she have feelings for him? Or did she think she’d be in deep shit, after he left? It wasn’t impossible. Roland wasn’t sure if she’d been a virgin, when they’d made love for the first time, but she sure as hell wasn’t now.
Forget about it, he told himself. She knew what she was doing when she seduced you.
A flash of pleasure ran through him, followed by a strange surge of energy. He kissed her lightly, his mind already returning to everything he had to do. Sandra didn’t seem to notice. Roland forced himself to stand, then headed for the shower. He’d wash and dress and eat, then attend the conference before flying out to the fleet. And then ...
“Hang on,” Sandra said. “I’m coming.”
Roland felt a flicker of affection as she joined him in the shower, her bare breasts glistening under the water. He stepped back to let her wash, wondering if he was developing feelings for her. How would he know, if he was? It wasn’t as if he’d ever had a real partner before, not when he’d been in the gilded cage. They’d been his servants, unable to say no, or people who wanted something from him. Belinda ... he’d had a crush on Belinda, he admitted to himself, but she’d never been interested. Why should she be?
He scrubbed her back, then turned to allow her to return the favour. What was she thinking? Did she hope he’d stay, permanently? Or did she hope he’d take her with him, when he was finally recalled? It wasn’t impossible. The DIs had warned their young recruits that there was never any shortage of young women willing to do anything, anything at all, in exchange for getting off stage-one colony worlds. And yet, Sandra didn’t fall into the standard type. She had a place on the world, if one that was a little restrictive.
Ask her, his thoughts mocked. They sounded like Rachel. Or wait and see if she tells you.
He put the thought out of his head as he clambered out of the shower, dried himself and poured two mugs of military-grade coffee. It tasted foul, compared to the coffee he’d drunk as a young princeling, but it woke him up. He allowed himself a moment of relief, then dressed hastily and ordered food. Rachel must have already given instructions to the kitchen staff. Sandra barely had time to dress before it arrived,
“Take care of yourself,” Sandra said, after they’d eaten. “Come back to me.”
“I will,” Roland said, fearing he was storing up trouble for himself. “If I can, I will.”
He was still fretting about it when he walked into the conference room and looked around, silently noting who was in attendance and who’d yet to arrive. The naval officers were almost all aristocrats, drawn from the former coast guard and corporate shipping lines and promoted - heavily - as the makeshift fleet grew larger. They were reasonably competent, he’d been assured. They’d spent most of their time at sea, rather than flying desks in offices hundreds of miles inland. The army officers were something of a mixed bag. Some of them had been promoted for competence, but the majority - both aristo and townie - had been selected through political interference. Roland told himself he’d managed to get rid of much of the dead wood. The war had been a harsher teacher than any DI.
“Gentlemen,” he said. The only woman in the room was Rachel, sitting in the far corner ignored by everyone. She had a remarkable talent for blending into the background, he’d discovered. “If you want a drink” - he waved a hand at the dispenser - “take one now, then be seated. Time is pressing.”
He paused, waiting for the officers to sit down. His old DI would have cried - or exploded with rage - if he’d seen them, calling the officers out for everything from limited discipline to a complete lack of military protocol. Roland would be happy, as long as they had the competence to go with their rank. Eight months of training, preparation and limited military operations had done what they could, but he was uneasily aware it took time to build the cohesion the military required to operate and win. One solid enemy blow would be enough to shake his force to its foundations, perhaps break it up into fragmented units trying to escape the oncoming storm. If they broke ...
“You should all have had a chance to study the plan,” he continued. “It is a little rough and ready, and parts of it will have to be adapted on the fly, but there is no way to tighten it up until we actually go to war. With that in mind” - he paused - “do you have any points you wish to raise?”
His words hung in the air. He’d done his best to convince his subordinates that he wouldn’t bite off their heads for questioning him, even if they were wrong. And yet ... too many of them had grown up in environments where speaking freely was asking to have one’s career blighted, if not destroyed. Roland understood how they felt, but it was important to have them involved in discussions. If something happened to him, and it might, they’d be the ones charged with continuing the offensive.
“I have one,” General Hangchow said. “Can we land enough troops on the island before the rebels counterattack?”
“Our exercises say yes,” Admiral Forest said. “Realistically, they will assume our first priority is to secure a port. They are unlikely to draw their troops out of protective cover just to hammer us on the beach, when our guns will batter their men into dust. By the time they realise they’re wrong, it will be too late.”
We hope, Roland added, silently. He’d reviewed past engagements, from minor colonial skirmishes to maritime combat before humanity had expanded into the galaxy, and he was all too aware the rebels could have done the same. There were supposed to be copies of the Imperial Library on Baraka and Winchester, although it wasn’t clear if they had survived the uprising. Or if the rebels even knew they were there. They may have researched the past too.
He leaned forward. “We must not fail,” he said. “Once we have a secure lodgement, and the special units are in place, we will advance as quickly as possible to our final targets. They have to know where we’re heading, so they will do everything in their power to stop us. If you see a chance to hurt them, take it. Don’t wait for orders.”
The room seemed to hang on his every word. “This will be our first really big operation, so I want to make two points very clear. First, I expect each and every one of you to work as a team. I know we have had our differences. I know we have had disagreements and fights and ... but, right now, we have to work together. This is a team effort, not a bout between individual champions. If any of you, and I mean any of you, does anything to imperil our ability to work as a team, I will break you. Is that clear?”
He paused, long enough for a rumble of assent to sweep across the room. He’d hoped the lesson would sink in, without him needing to hammer it home, but ... better to make it clear now rather than risk disaster later down the line. He meant it, too. If anyone, no matter their connections, tried to slow things down, he’d send them home in disgrace.
“Second, I want you to remind your subordinates, all of them, that atrocities will not be permitted nor tolerated,” he said. “Surrendering prisoners are to be treated with respect, if a healthy degree of paranoia. We will take care to make sure they don’t have the opportunity to harm us. However, we will not slaughter unarmed enemy POWs or civilians or anyone else. I do not expect you to tell me that no civilians will be harmed, because that isn’t likely to happen, but if anyone commits a war crime they will be put in front of a firing squad and shot. This time, there will be no exile. They. Will. Be. Shot.”
He looked from face to face, silently gauging their feelings. “We’re leaving tonight,” he said, changing the subject. “The fleet will unite tomorrow, then set course for our target. If you want to say your goodbyes, or write your last letters, do so now, but be mindful of security precautions. We can at least try to keep them in the dark.”
Roland hoped they’d listen. He doubted the deception would last, and he’d planned on the assumption it wouldn’t, but he’d take what he could get. The coming engagement would be costly, even if everything went according to plan. He knew, without waiting for the fighting to begin, that it wouldn’t. The rebels would have plans of their own. Roland had spent hours asking himself what he’d do, in their place. The answers hadn’t been reassuring.
“Good luck to us all,” he said. “Dismissed.”