Forward Momentum -- Chapter 6 (b)

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Ekaterin, no more let into this bit of Miles’s agenda than Cordelia and Aral, had like them-and Gregor-heard with alarm the sudden murder snarling beneath her husband’s level voice.

When he swung to face his father and became so terrifyingly intense, she knew they were close to the heart of what was driving him. His mention of Escobar set her teeth on edge even as she realised he had said nothing that went beyond the known history of that catastrophically failed Barrayaran venture. But she could not quite believe what he seemed to be suggesting.

The thought that first came to mind, shocking her quite as much as the idea itself, was whether her father-in-law’s health would allow him to lead an invasion. Gak. Cordelia, she saw, was asking the same question, looking torn between wanting to give Aral a restraining hug and urgently desiring to strangle Miles. Perhaps it was fortunate one could not reach through frames. The notion that Lord Mark would be delighted also drifted into Ekaterin’s mind, and as she tried to push it away reminded her of why exactly Miles’s clone-brother hated the gene-lords and merchant-plutocrats of Jackson’s Whole with such constant and some­times consuming passion. Oh. She had to admit it was by all accounts the most appalling planet-and since she had been drawn into Miles’s high acquaintance, the accounts she heard had multiplied considerably. Jacksonians had caused Barrayar a sorry deal of grief and trouble, with no more reason than quick profit and indulging malice, so if anywhere deserved to be ritually invaded, it was, she supposed, Jackson’s Whole. Looking round her she thought most of her guests had reached the same satisfyingly judgemental conclusion. Illyan especially was looking intro­spective, and Ekaterin remembered Miles telling her in one of her security briefings after their engagement that the weird poison that had killed Illyan’s eidetic memory chip and ended his long ImpSec career was of Jacksonian manufacture, though commissioned by Komarr­ans and administered by a Barrayaran. Come to think of it, the neuro­toxin specifically designed to kill her at her own wedding had also been a Jacksonian product-and Miles had sworn to her and himself he would not let that insult and injury pass unshriven. Bother Jackson’s Whole.

Gregor’s eyebrows, however, quirked in unhappy bemuse­ment. Despite having reigned for thirty-one years and survived both civil and galactic war, he had never, Ekaterin realised, ordered a first-strike operation. Or not an overt one. How many agendas was Miles really juggling here? Looking across the room at her father-in-law, who was regarding his diminutive, blazing son with quiet astonishment, she was sure even he had not anticipated this. At last his strong baritone came levelly.

“Miles, are you serious?”

“Deadly serious, sir. And I am not going to argue humanitarian senti­ment by remembering all the times we have had sickening cause to curse the Jacksonian houses and their disgusting gene-trade.” His ringing dis­avowal served to remind all present that Vorkosigans in particular had good reason to loathe amoral Jacksonian practice. Mark again. “Instead let me stick to strategic analysis. Guy, Yuri, please come in at any point.” Miles’s hands gestured invitation. “A known, very active security hazard, and sink of especially vile criminal operations, remains untouched though more-or-less defenceless in military terms, partly for its occasional practical uses, but that is secondary. Either Barrayar or Cetaganda-and the Star Crèche disapproves of Jacksonian genetics quite as violently as we, by the way-could perfectly well shut the place down tomorrow, but it would take more effort than we can readily expend and cost more casualties than we care to afford. Additionally, the truly potent deterrent for us, and in reverse for the Cetagandans, is that unilateral action of that kind would disastrously disturb the political and military balances of the Nexus, and make the occupied planet very costly to defend.” He looked around slowly. “Is that pretty much the size of it?”

Military and professorial heads nodded. Miles turned to his father.

“I was not suggesting, sir, you lead a purely Barrayaran force against Jackson’s Whole, satisfying as that would doubtless be. I had in mind that securing its future headquarters, and simultaneously eliminating the biggest single problem in its immediate vicinity, would be a worthy first objective of the Joint Imperial Frontier Fleet. Count Aral Vorkos­igan, Viceroy of Sergyar, commanding.” Miles looked at his mother, whose glare was accusing. “Or co-commanding, with a haut planetary governor or some impossibly senior ghem-Admiral. I’m not sure how the Cetas will play it.” The Vicereine did not look mollified, but Miles looked back at his father and risked a smile. “Without in any way circumscribing you, sir, I should also say I imagine it very much as an honorary command, not an executive one.”

Silence returned until the Viceroy broke it, turning slowly to Gregor. “Sire. Is this a strategy you countenance?”

Gregor smiled back, very dryly. “No you don’t, Aral. It’s your advice I need first. Miles had not apprised me of this particular, ah, twist in his thinking.” The Emperor turned to look at his newest, most disruptive Lord Auditor with some severity. “Invading anywhere, with or without Cetagandans, was not what I expected to be considering today, Miles.” He frowned. “I can see various reasons for keeping this from me. But I don’t think I much like any of them.”

“I wasn’t done thinking it through, Sire. I’m sorry. And I thought the idea of alliance more important than the mechanics.”

“Hmm. And you are now done thinking?”

Miles smiled. “Yes. The whole thing’s a hook, really, as much as an end in itself and a … project for the proposed fleet. The psychology of which I think we could all agree on.”

“A hook?”

“Yes.” Miles turned. “Guy, what is the greatest remaining imbalance between us and Cetaganda that worries you?”

The answer was unhesitating. “The bio-arsenal held by the Star Crèche.”

“Quite so. And we would be dangerously misguided to suppose that even with a well-established alliance the haut ladies would give up anything. They are the innermost nucleus of the haut gene-project, and so of the Cetagandan Imperium. But they are not yet beyond human curiosity. Even fairness, perhaps. And especially self-interest.” Miles swung round a little and opened his arms wide. “Mama, what would be the effects of taking the gene-houses of Jackson’s Whole off the market? Permanently?”

The Vicereine, who had, Ekaterin thought, been looking more pensive than distressed or fearsome since Miles’s remark about an honorary command, grew still. “Now that is a point, Miles. Jackson­ians provide services many very wealthy people use. Including things certainly not available either on Beta or Escobar, such as longevity at the cost of others’ lives. That particular, ah, market will be very unhappy.”

“And money will out. Quite so.” Both Miles and Cordelia, Ekaterin knew, had heard Mark wax eloquent more than once about his hopes that the Durona Group on Escobar, in whom he had invested heavily, would find a geriatric treatment good enough to undercut the mortal market that Jacksonian gene-houses tapped by offering clone brain-transplants. “Sire, hooks have no guarantees, of course. Only bait. But … let us suppose the Cetagandans buy this plan, because it is in their interests as much as ours. Better security all round for everyone, a stable frontier, a new technology and its applications to absorb and excite people. Old revenues released to better use, very large new ones generated-at least for us. And a formal territorial project that will sate aggressions on both sides and provide the central term of our new, formal imperial and celestial amity with a place beyond the decks of a serving fleet for some real cooperation and understanding to develop.”

That drew a long nod of appreciation from Gregor-and from Aral, whose brow was furrowed in intense thought.

“So, there we would all be. And there would be the very inelastic galactic market in living longer with a large but by no means permanent hole blown right through its stony heart. And who in all this hypothesis has the genetic expertise to put together a serious package of bio-enhancements to plug that hole properly?” Since that first murderous intensity in Miles’s voice nothing odd had shown as he discussed invading the planet he hated so much. Now his voice became almost dreamy, though he still spoke directly to Gregor. “It should all be perfectly impossible, of course, Sire, but I have this vision of you standing next to the haut Fletchir Giaja, in orbit above Jackson’s Whole, or”-he brightened-“in Baron Fell’s palace, telling the assembled galaxy by frame Your joint-fleet has taken the place as headquarters. That Your is a new imperial plural, by the way. You could both invite embassies to fleet HQ, to manage galactic access to newly viable systems. And announce that as Barrayar will establish a technical institute to receive and assist ambassadors, so Cetaganda will establish a genetic one.”

This silence you could have broken with a pin. Ekaterin stared at her husband. He is extraordinary. And then, He is thinking of our children-to-be. And of theirs, in turn. The hand Miles extended to her was confirmation, though his gaze stayed on Gregor, slowly looking round at each of the company in turn. She felt her Aunt Helen stiffen slightly beside her as Gregor’s eyes rested on her. Then they were on Ekaterin, with that now familiar sensation of being looked through, all the way to the spine. What does Gregor see? Or better, What does Gregor want?

But she knew. And amid these makers of history it was terrifying to have one’s own judgement seriously sought. Yet Ekaterin no longer felt small among these amazing people, even as she learned more of their astounding qualities as friends and marriage-kin. And for all the dizzying complexity of today’s politics she had no more doubt of Miles than she had felt in that memorable moment in the council-chamber of Vorhart­ung Castle, when she decisively chose this life.

The emperor’s gaze left her, passing over Miles to Allegre and Vor­lynkin. With Alys he held still for the longest time. With Illyan he seem­ed to exchange only the briefest glance, but both their lips twisted. Still floating on Gregor’s infusion of confidence and her husband’s outrageous vision of planetary conquest Ekaterin found she understood perfectly that Gregor would be familiar with Simon’s acerbic view-from-experience that Miles regarded any orders worth obeying as worth exceeding. I fired the little maniac. You gave him the gold chain. She could almost hear Illyan’s sardonic tones as Gregor shrugged and turned to the Viceroy and Vicereine for long moments, then back to Miles.

“I’m not sure I do invasions, Miles.” He seemed to Ekaterin’s enhanced eye unusually tense, even nervy, glancing at the Viceroy. “Your proposition stirs unwelcome memories.”  He looked closely at his wife, and seemed reassured by whatever her eyes showed him. “Aral, and Yuri, I know you can only guess, but what would be the human cost of this …”- he glanced with appreciation at Chandler, who smiled uncertainly back-“part of the hypothesis?”

The Viceroy gestured Vorlynkin to speak. “With Cetagandan cooper­ation, Sire, I can see no reason for many casualties to be suffered occupying the system. Perhaps none, for us, at any rate.” The navy man rubbed his chin, calculating. “Taking the jump-stations will tell the Houses we’re there, of course, but only House Fell has anything that can be called a fleet and they have nothing bigger than cruisers-well-equipped ones, true, but our capital ships could take them apart from distance. The orbital platforms as well.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Of course whether they would fight at all, faced with us and the Cetagandans, is moot. I imagine we are talking about a really rather formidable, not to say startling, array of warships, and Jacksonians usually have a good deal more discretion than they have valour.”

The humour faded. “Taking a planetary surface is another story, though. It would take far longer, of course, and casualties would depend on specific tactical objectives. I don’t have to tell anyone here street-fighting is never a good option, and one thing Jacksonians do have is strong-points-every major house facility could become one. Still … they’re very weak in personnel-there are no planetary forces as such at all, nor any co-ordinated government beyond the consortium that runs the jump-stations, so we’d mostly be facing isolated groups of house security-people, not proper soldiers.” Vorlynkin paused and frowned, thinking. “The real trick, you know, might be organising them sufficiently to have someone to talk to. But if we can do that, with overwhelming force available on, um, our side, and an unmistakeable intent to do the job one way or another, those security-men will want out with their families. Fighting Imperial and ghem troops in divisional strength is not what they are trained to do at all. So if we could give them one controlled route to survival, not just ‘surrender or die’ but ‘lay down your weapons and walk’, I think most of ’em would take it. And isolated hold-outs could much more readily be targeted from orbit with x-ray and maser strike-cannon.” He shrugged eloquently. “Everyone surrenders then, unless they’re suicidal.”

“A bloodless victory? Truly?” Gregor seemed surprised, but, fascinatingly to Ekaterin, Laisa did not. Even now not many Komarrans, she thought, looked past the Solstice Massacre to the fact that the murdered Councillors had been just about the only fatalities of Aral’s takeover, and what the comprehensive success of his strategy implied.

“For us, Sire, very largely bloodless, I think, if it were played right.”

Gregor turned his head. “Aral?”

The Viceroy grimaced, and half-bowed to Laisa. “I learned at Komarr, Sire, that blood must always be reckoned with in planning invasions. But Yuri is right enough. And everything on Jackson’s Whole is crowded together on one continent in the temperate band, which makes it much easier.” He gave Gregor a straight look. “After all, I would hope a Joint Imperial Force, presumably of considerable size, could swat a polity like Jackson’s Whole with ease and only incidental losses. But one death may be too many, and I’ve been wondering about something.” He shifted to look round to his side. “Dr Chandler, did I understand correctly that your frames will transmit any waveform energy?”

“You did, sir. Though not all waveforms are equally amenable to the process.”

“Ah. And in the particular case of a stasis-field?”

At Ekaterin’s side Miles stiffened. This was apparently not even on his agenda. She saw Gregor also staring at Aral. Chandler’s gaze became unfocused as he gauged his answer. “I don’t see why not. The artificial gravity of your ship is not transmitted, because it’s an interference effect, but if you generated a stasis-field close to your frame, then, yes, it would extend through the frame here.” He frowned. “Of the field’s shape at this end I am less certain. But computing-power would supply an answer fast enough, and practical experiment would be simple.”

“So. And from what you have said there would be no difficulty in mounting frames in, say, drone-satellites?”

“Not in the least. Though if they were inside re-entry cladding a mechanical deployment might be required to use them.”

“Ah, yes. But that need not be a lengthy process.” The Viceroy turned back to Gregor. “The problem with stasis-fields, of course, Sire, has always been the power they require to generate. So like gravitic lances they cannot serve as field weapons, and the boffins struggle to extend their shipboard range. But it occurs to me that that particular struggle is among those Dr Chandler has just rendered obsolete.”

The Terran was looking resigned. “Weapons, already.” He shook his head. “But to peaceful ends, I suppose. Nevertheless.” He sent a steely glance at Gregor. “I will not help you to try to extend the gravitational lance as a field weapon. Sire. In any case it uses interference phenomena also.” He seemed reassured when not only Gregor but both the military men nodded. Then he frowned. “But, you know, if a stasis-field is extended, tractor-beams should also work.”

Aral’s eyes gleamed. “Now there’s a thought.”

Beside her Miles was almost levitating from his seat. “Force-bubbles, Da. Fuse the joint-technologies and put frames in Cetagandan force-bubbles. You could flood the place from orbit with little stasis- and tractor-bubbles, immobilise everyone with a weapon, and march the Barons out of their own front doors to line up and meet you.”

For an appalling moment two Vorkosigan admirals grinned fiercely at one another, and the Viceroy huffed with laughter. Then he went very still. “But we could, you know.” His voice was a whisper. For the first time Ekaterin remembered he turned to look directly at his wife, who met his eyes levelly. The now familiar thought Mark will like it was there, and also, Ekaterin thought, something resembling I like it too. But there were opacities underneath, a lifetime’s worth. A planet’s worth too, maybe. A son’s worth. Then the Viceroy laughed and swung round to survey the room and assembled company.

“You know, Sire, there is no Barrayaran law whatever restricting the right of the emperor to wage war. The Counts, of course, are bound by Vorloupulous’s Law, but in tradition as in law you are supreme commander of the Barrayaran armed forces and do with them as you will.” He smiled. “We both know the reality of that. Or we did.”  The blunt, square hands that once strangled a political officer were relaxed in his lap. “Today reality has changed. It seems to me the real advantage Dr Chandler and Miles describe is neither military nor political. It is a reality advantage. We were at the mercy of the natural galaxy in our Isolation, of the Nexus in our Occupation, but now Barrayar can call the galactic play for itself. Once.” He looked at his son, then at her, with a gaze Ekaterin felt as physical weight, a burden and grounding. “Will you summarise, please, Miles. Just the bones, cogently.”

Miles stood. The display of the Nexus brightened again, showing the dual imperial spheres of influence like lobes of so many brains, streaked through with narrow, twisting grey gaps; Jackson’s Whole glowed on in ugly yellow. “Physical demarcation of space as shown. The diversion of excess young and military energy into settlement of systems made viable by frames and nanoforges. A Joint Fleet to police the frontier and the new planets, headquartered at Jackson’s Whole, once it has been bloodlessly captured with tractor-bubbles.”

Miles managed to keep a straight face but still looked utterly charmed by his vision of hypothetical bubbles marching the Jacksonian Barons about their own streets. Brightly coloured bubbles, probably.

“Then galactically, distribution to all major polities of frames, and imauguration of a new Nexus-wide comnet with a joint Imperial address on or in orbit above Their Majesties’ new joint-fleet’s principal HQ. Saying the Barrayaran-Cetagandan hatchet is buried, everyone has a complete reassessment to perform, we shall be occupied with our own space and have tidied up Jackson’s Whole as a singular, preventative measure. All to be followed by establishment of proper embassies and institutions there, including our new technical and a Cetagandan genetic interface with the galaxy at large.” He considered. “I have some detail-stuff, but that’s pretty much it.”

Gregor looked at his foster-brother, his eyes dark and unreadable again. What details did Miles still have an eye on?       The Viceroy nodded judiciously. “And domestically?”

Miles blinked. “Legally, Gregor can do as he wishes. The only objection the Counts could make is covered with Vorpastov’s Codicil. No formal ratification would be needed. Practically, the Council will have distribution of new technologies and a very great deal of economic business to keep its members occupied. They will also have the prospect of enormous galactic revenues to consider. Politically, with the fleet happy and the Council fragmented, the biggest concern is public opinion.” Miles paused, and raised a hand to waggle ambivalently. “This, of course, is judgement. But at various points today we have said Barrayar has … moved on. And I think, if we let Dr Chandler’s new facts speak for themselves, we will find we can move on where Cetaganda is concerned. There are memories and painful scars, of course. For them, too, for all they were aggressors. But memories are fading, scars are old. There will be the distraction of new technology, and the economic benefits of that and greater security. And whatever inspirational leadership and guidance the Imperium may provide its subjects.”

“Heh.” Aral looked more musing than disbelieving. “And why will the Cetagandans agree to move on with us?”

Miles waggled both hands, and shrugged. “Another judgement. The Cetas have the advantage, in numbers and resources, but we have hurt them hard. Once by ourselves. Once with the Hegen Hub Alliance. Three times, if you count Marilac, which at the highest levels they certainly do. And we have confused the ghem-lords, perhaps all ghem, considerably in the process. After the Cetagandans’ little internal difficulty with the Star Crèche ten years ago the haut also had to do some shuffling at senior levels. They don’t want an all-out war with us any more than we want one with them. And they don’t want it sufficiently badly that I think they will go a long way to avoid it.”

What little internal difficulty with the Star Crèche? Nothing Ekaterin knew about Miles’s visit to Eta Ceta included any hint of such a problem-but he had been in contact with the Star Crèche. More than contact. Miles was counting on his fingers again.

“In addition, first, they equally have the technology and its implica­tions to consider. Second, though this may seem to some of you an odd consideration, the haut are aesthetes, and I think some of this plan will appeal to them. Or rather, and third, to him. To them-meaning Giaja and Degtiar. We only have to persuade two Cetagandans. The rest will follow. And last, my guess is Giaja will be exasperated, amused, and under terrible pressure. Cetagandan law does not favour the man on the spot, and if Giaja thought it was just us pushing him, he’d stick; but he as well as we can see the problem the technology poses, and he’ll appreciate the advantage of speed. So the plan, because it is fair, will instead become the path of least resistance.”

As litany and logic developed everyone’s faces became absorbed. Her aunt and uncle, Ekaterin imagined, were processing it in their own ways, thinking of unforgiving historical forces or assessing loads and inertias. The officers and Illyan presumably had political and security angles; the Viceroy and Vicereine equally so, with heavy tangles of family as well. What did Alys make of her nephew’s mystery weekend so far? Gregor-no, the Emperor-looked round them all, then again at Laisa.

“My Advisors. Given all you have heard, does anyone wish to speak against this now?” No-one did. Miles let out a long, slow sigh, audible only to Ekaterin. “Then I shall speak tomorrow to the haut Fletchir Giaja. As to what may then be said … I shall sleep on it. Miles, I would appreciate it if you sprang no more surprises on me today. Please confirm the frame-call with ghem-General Benin, and tell him exactly who will be present at this end. That cannot wait.” Abruptly he looked at his Viceroy and Vicereine, side-by-side in their small frame and smaller cabin. “And I had, by damn, forgotten. These things are going to take some getting used to. Aral, Cordelia, when will you be here?”

“Sometime after midnight, I fear.”

“But not too long after.” Cordelia’s was smiling. “Aral’s had them redlining all the way,”

“Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow. And we will see, eh? Meantime, Miles, while I am very fond of this excellent apple-juice you mentioned raiding your cellars. Just now, I request and require that you do.”