On Basilisk Station

'Anyway, he made his desires known, and I was too busy horse-trading with him on the new engineering wing for Saganami Island to say no.'

'All right, but what's a commander doing as SO? That ought to be at least a captain.'

'Agreed.' Webster tipped his chair back. 'What do you know about Pavel Young?'

'Who?' Alexander blinked at the apparent non sequitur. 'You mean North Hollow's son?'

'That's the one.'

'Not much—and the little I do know, I don't like. Why?'

'Because Captain Lord Pavel Young is supposed to be the senior officer in Basilisk. Unfortunately, his ship required `urgent refit,' and he felt the repairs involved were too complicated to leave in the hands of his executive officer. So he brought her home himself—leaving Harrington and a single light cruiser on the station.'

Alexander stared at him in disbelief, and Webster flushed under his astonished gaze.

'Jim, I've known you for a lot of years,' Alexander said at length. 'So suppose you tell me why you haven't relieved him?'

'Because of politics,' Webster sighed. 'You should know that. That's one reason I want your impressions of how the Government is likely to react to all this. Christ, Hamish! I've got the damned Havenites screaming for blood, half a dozen cartels—headed by Hauptman's—are madder than hell, Countess Marisa is getting ready to fight the Naval Estimates tooth and nail, the goddamned `New Men' are sitting right in her hip pocket, and you know what a big gun, politically speaking, North Hollow is! It's been all I can do to keep Young shuffled off onto the sidelines. Do you really think the Duke is going to thank me if I piss off the Conservative Association at a time like this by relieving the spoiled-darling son of High Ridge's second-in-command?'

'No, probably not,' Alexander admitted after a moment, but the admission left a sour taste in his mouth. The majority of Manticore's aristocrats honored a tradition of public service fueled by a strong sense of noblesse oblige; those who did not were among the most self-centered and intolerant in the known universe, and Baron Michael of High Ridge's Conservative Association was their home. The Association was openly committed to 'restoring the historical balance of power intended by our Founders' between the nobility and the uppity commoners—a 'balance,' Alexander knew perfectly well, which had never existed except in their own wishful thinking.

He chewed on his thoughts for a moment, then frowned. 'What's Young like?'

'He's an arrogant, over-sexed, incompetent, bigoted snot,' Webster replied so promptly his visitor's lips twitched involuntarily. 'A real chip off the North Hollow block.'

'That I can believe, if he shuffled his responsibilities off on a junior and hightailed it back to civilization.'

'It's uglier than that, Hamish. Much uglier.' Alexander crooked a fresh eyebrow, and Webster waved his hands in frustration. 'Unless I miss my guess, he deliberately set Harrington up for a fall by leaving her behind.'

'Why do you think that?'

'There was bad blood between them when they were both at the Academy. I don't know all the details— Hartley was commandant then, and you know how hard it is to worm things out of him—but Young caught an official reprimand for conduct unbecoming. He goes through women like a kodiak max through Beowulf buffalo, just like his father and both brothers, and apparently he didn't want to take no for an answer. I gather it got physical.'

'You mean he—?!' Alexander half-rose from the desk, his expression thunderous, but Webster interrupted him with a grin.

'I'd guess he tried, but Harrington's from Sphinx.' Alexander's eyes began to gleam, and Webster nodded. 'And she was number two on the unarmed combat demonstration team in her senior form. From what I can gather, he may have started it, but she most definitely finished it.' His grin faded. 'Which is why he stuck her with Basilisk Station, and I'm damned worried that he may finally have gotten her.'

'How so? What're all the protests about?'

'It seems that no one told Commander Harrington that Basilisk Station is where we send our fuck-ups and deadbeats. She may only have one ship, but she's actually enforcing the commerce regs against Junction traffic. Not only that, but in the last three weeks she's deployed a few hundred million dollars worth of recon probes to cover the entire inner system, established a Navy-run space traffic control around Medusa, and taken over the customs function from the NPA. In fact, she's raised enough general hell that Admiral Warner tells me Young has actually stopped enjoying his self-assigned leave and started trying to expedite his repairs so he can get back there and stop her. I think he's afraid he's created a monster that may drag him down, too, patronage or no. Unfortunately, Warner's boys and girls on Hephaestus have Young's ship opened up like a used ration can at the moment. I'm not sure, but I have the distinct impression Warner is actually dragging his heels on the refit just to enjoy watching Young squirm, and he can't leave his ship behind without effectively admitting what he tried to pull, so there's not much he can do.'

'Good God,' Alexander said mildly. 'Do you mean to tell me we finally have an SO on Basilisk Station who's doing her job? How remarkable!'

'Yes, she's doing her job, and damned well, as far as I can tell, but that's what all of these—' Webster waved the memo chips '—are about. She's got detachments all over the system, and whoever she left to handle the terminus inspections seems to be a real hard case. He's ramming the regs down everybody's throat, chapter and verse, and I don't think he'd be doing that without Harrington's specific backing. Of course it's got the Havenites screaming, but he's enforcing them against our own shipping, as well. That alone would be enough to tick off every merchant house in the Kingdom after the free run they've always had there, but even that's not the worst of it. You remember the rumors about smuggling through Medusa?' Alexander nodded, and Webster grinned sourly. 'Well, Harrington's orbital inspection parties have seized well over nine hundred million dollars worth of contraband—so far— and sent it in for judgment and condemnation. And in the process, she caught the Hauptman Cartel trying to smuggle kodiak maximus pelts out through Medusa and called them on it. She's seized a four-and-a-half-million-ton freighter under charter to Hauptman—the Mondragon —and sent her in under a prize crew, for God's sake!'

'Oh, my!' Alexander pressed a hand to his ribs, trying in vain to stifle his laughter as he pictured the carnage the unknown Harrington must be strewing in her wake.

'You may think it's funny,' Webster growled, 'but I've had Klaus Hauptman himself in here, swearing up one side and down the other that his people are as innocent as the driven snow, that it was all Mondragon's master's doing, and that Harrington is harassing his other, legitimate shipments. He wants her head, and the Havenites are sharpening the axe for him with all these `protests' of theirs! What's happening to their Junction shipping is bad enough, as far as they're concerned, but you know their official position on our claim to Medusa. Their consul is practically chewing the rug about her `patently illegal searches of legitimate merchant vessels in the course of their lawful trading activities with an independent planet.' It's got all the makings of a first-class diplomatic incident, and it's not getting any better.'

'Screw the Havenites,' Alexander snapped, forgetting to laugh. 'And screw Hauptman, too! It sounds to me like she's doing exactly what we're supposed to have been doing for years, Jim!'

'Oh? And do you think Sir Edward Janacek will share your view?'

'No, but that's no reason to come down on Harrington for doing her job. Damn it, from what you're saying, Young tried his damnedest to put a knife in her back! Do you want to stick it in for him?'

'You know I don't!' Webster ran his hands through his hair again. 'Hell, Hamish, my grand-nephew is on Fearless. If I relieve Harrington, I'll be sending him exactly the wrong message about the discharge of an officer's responsibilities. For that matter, every officer in the Fleet will draw the same conclusion!'

'Exactly.'

'Goddamn it,' Webster sighed. 'I'm First Space Lord. I'm not supposed to have to decide what to do with a damned commander.'

Alexander frowned and returned to the contemplation of his boot toe, and Webster tipped his chair further