“I insist on an open investigation, conducted by the TBI,” Harrison said. “We will not tolerate any attempt to sweep the truth under the rug.”
“Quite,” the king agreed. “But the TBI has been excessively politicized in recent years.”
“And the Inspectorate General has not?” Harrison met his eyes firmly. “This is not a matter that can be left in the navy’s hands.”
“A joint investigation, then,” the king said. “Right now, Mr. Harrison, we have other problems.”
“Quite,” Harrison said. “Let us leave aside the accusations of incompetence or treachery and concentrate on the facts. And the facts are that the situation in the Theocratic Sector is out of control. Nor can it be gotten back under control.”
“Admiral Falcone is doing the best she can with the forces under her command,” Vaughn said, firmly. “However, she needs heavy reinforcements to secure the sector and track down the enemy fleet.”
“Reinforcements that cannot be provided,” Harrison counted. “The entire sector is a money sink.”
The king looked displeased, but said nothing. Peter eyed him thoughtfully, wondering what he was thinking. His flagship program had run aground on simple bad luck, or treachery, and yet he was very calm. Perhaps, just perhaps, he’d realized that the whole crisis was an opportunity to back down without looking weak. Or he was simply keeping his cards close to his chest. There was nothing to be gained by arguing here.
And we’re meant to set policy for an entire kingdom, Peter reminded himself. Here, we can afford to forget politics and be blunt.
“We believe that we can force a withdrawal vote now and win,” Harrison added. “I assume you do not agree with us?”
“You may assume that,” the king said evenly.
Peter said nothing. His analysts hadn’t had time to conduct a proper assessment, but they’d been unsure if the convoy attack would fuel a demand for violent revenge, at the cost of sending more heavy ships to the occupied sector, or a wish for immediate withdrawal. There were simply too many factors to be considered for them to be certain about anything. And Harrison clearly had his doubts too. He would have pushed for the vote if he’d thought he had a better-than-even chance of winning.
Except that would have alienated the king permanently, Peter reminded himself. Both sides would be happier thrashing out a compromise.
“We wish to propose a compromise,” Harrison said calmly. “We will make one final investment in the sector, with the intention of helping the occupied worlds to defend themselves, then withdraw. Perhaps, depending on the situation, we will continue to hold Maxwell’s Haven, so we have naval bases at both sides of the Gap, but otherwise we will pull out completely. The locals can take care of their own defense.”
“The locals cannot take care of their own defense,” the king said. He didn’t sound angry, merely . . . dispassionate. “Even now, with one of the Theocratic superdreadnoughts little more than dust and ashes, the ships can still cause havoc.”
Peter eyed him. “We’ve been over this, again and again and again,” he said. “We simply cannot afford to defend them.”
“So you would leave them defenseless?” The king’s voice didn’t change. “Alone against their former masters?”
“We can station a superdreadnought squadron or two at Maxwell’s Haven,” Harrison pointed out. “If the Theocrats do show themselves, we can stomp on them.”
“Until you manage to get that squadron withdrawn too,” the king said. His eyes flickered around the room. “Can you even get consensus on this?”
Harrison smiled. “I believe that most of the Opposition will accept this compromise,” he said, briskly. “It won’t please anyone, including you and me, but . . . we will accept it.”
And it will be a step towards stemming the money flow, Peter thought. They’d planned the compromise to ensure that government funds flowed into the corporations, but he was grimly aware that the move wasn’t going to be enough. Like it or not, Tyre was in for some hard times. We will have to find other solutions.
“We must discuss the matter,” the king said. “Please, make yourselves at home.”
Peter watched him and the prime minister depart, then looked at Israel Harrison. The Leader of the Opposition seemed . . . distracted, as if he was being bothered by a far greater thought. It was hard to escape the impression that he’d failed in some way, even though he’d convinced his MPs to back the compromise. His position might be weakened because he hadn’t managed to get everything the Opposition wanted from the government.
But the government didn’t get everything it wanted either, Peter told himself. And that’s why the compromise will pass.
He leaned back in his comfortable chair. The room was supposed to be secure—his datapad had picked up four different privacy fields—but he knew better than to take that for granted. His father had shown him just how easy it was to subvert a privacy field, if you happened to be the one who’d set it up. The king’s security officers might be recording every word spoken. Peter wouldn’t feel safe talking openly until he got back to his mansion.
And we’re going to have to make some hard decisions soon, he thought. The compromise will slow the bleeding, and it might win us time to put a more reasonable solution into place, but the underlying problem is not going to go away in a hurry.
He sighed. The convoy disaster had merely ratcheted up a war of words that had been raging for the last two months. Accusations of everything from incompetence to treachery had been exchanged by both sides, with attitudes hardening as moderates were driven to one side or the other. It was worse on the streets, he knew; there had always been problems with immigration, but he’d thought they were under control. Now . . . now, there had been attacks on immigrants and refugees that had left helpless men
