“It almost sounds medieval,” Angela Larkin said.
“Mr. North should feel right at home,” Chatburn observed. That earned a couple of quiet chuckles from around the table.
Sikander kept his face impassive. He’d already had enough of Hiram Randall’s barbs, and he was in no mood to let more wisecracks go unanswered. But Chatburn was his superior, and he had to be careful about how he responded. If he reacted with anger, the situation would be escalated right in front of the entire wardroom. If he laughed at himself to show that he fit in with his Aquilan colleagues, he would only be inviting more gibes in the future—and he would hate himself afterward. Don’t let them see an emotional response. But don’t let it pass without comment, either.
“If you mean that I feel like I understand the Gadirans, sir, then yes—I do,” Sikander answered. “They find themselves at the mercy of foreign cultures that have little respect for their most cherished traditions. You should not underestimate the injury of wounded pride, especially in systems that are controlled by less … enlightened powers than the Commonwealth.” He measured his sarcasm very carefully, allowing just a hint to color his tone and make his point; most of the officers at the table frowned or looked away. Then he continued on. “I believe I am not just speaking for myself when I say that I don’t yet see why our presence is required. What’s on fire in Gadira, and what are we supposed to do about it?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Captain Markham. “Why don’t you skip ahead a little, Mr. Randall?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Randall looked down the table at Sikander. “The short version is this: Sultan Rashid’s government faces serious unrest driven by economic distress and native xenophobia. The tribal groups openly defy the sultan’s authority, and the poor urban classes resent the fact that the beys are the only ones profiting from interstellar trade. Montréal is propping up the sultan, which of course makes the sultan even more unpopular with the xenophobic elements in Gadira. Our diplomatic agents in Tanjeer—that’s the planetary capital—believe the sultanate may fall, which means the Montréalais may lose control of the system.”
“That seems unfortunate for the Republic, but perhaps Montréal shouldn’t have grabbed the whole system or backed an unpopular ruler,” Magda said. “Picking winners in local politics is certain to inflame resentment from the losing side.”
“And I don’t understand why an Aquilan presence is important,” Chatburn added. “Isn’t this a problem for Montréal?”
“It is,” Captain Markham answered. “But Montréal is not the military power they were forty or fifty years ago, and there are strong sentiments in their domestic politics for getting out of their colonial responsibilities. When or if the sultanate falls, there will be a significant power vacuum in Gadira. The Montréalais will be out, but there will be other great powers anxious to bring Gadira within their sphere of influence.”
“Specifically, the Dremish,” said Randall.
“Exactly.” Markham leaned back in her chair. “The Foreign Ministry’s learned that the Empire of Dremark informed Montréal that it is very concerned about the ongoing unrest in Gadira and worries that its interests in the system are under threat. They will take steps to protect their own citizens and property. It seems clear that if the Montréalais are thrown out, the Dremish intend to move in.”
Sikander nodded again. Even if he hadn’t heard of Gadira before, anyone serving in the Aquilan navy knew the strategic situation of the Empire of Dremark quite well. Dremark was a powerful state but had been slow to organize when the era of great power expansion began. As a result, other powers established control over territory that now hemmed in Dremark’s natural avenues for growth. Dremish strategists and statesmen constantly called for access to sectors with better prospects, but the question no one had yet answered was who exactly would surrender territory to satisfy Dremark’s ambitions.
“How long do we expect to remain on station, ma’am?” Magda asked.
“Until relieved or recalled. Unofficially, I’ve heard that we can expect to be spelled by Paris or Memnon two to three months after we arrive.” Captain Markham looked around the table. “Any other questions? Ms. Larkin, what’s on your mind?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Larkin said. She sat up straighter and collected her thoughts. “You said that we wouldn’t want to see a power vacuum develop in Gadira, and I can see that. But a squadron of Montréalais warships above Gadira ought to guarantee that the sultanate stands, or at least make sure the Dremish don’t try to seize the system. I don’t see what we can do that they can’t. If anything, I’d imagine they would prefer us to mind our own business.”
A good question, Sikander thought. He’d come to think of Larkin as the sort of officer who didn’t volunteer anything she didn’t have to. It didn’t help that most of their interactions in Sikander’s first month aboard Hector had revolved around the issue of the lost torpedo and the lack of progress in determining the cause. It surprised him now to see that she was following the discussion and speaking her mind.
Captain Markham gave Larkin an approving nod. “Two or three years ago, I think that would have been exactly how Montréal would have handled the situation,” she said. “At this particular moment, the Republic needs to tread lightly. Fleet Intelligence thinks there may be a deeper strategy in play here. I’ve seen some analysis that suggests Dremark may be looking for an opportunity to confront Montréal and wring concessions out of them.”
“I think I understand, ma’am,” Larkin told the captain. “If the Dremish force Montréal to surrender a strategic system like Gadira, they gain a valuable new possession. If Montréal chooses to fight for Gadira, the Dremish gain the opportunity to start a war they know they’ll win.”
“That’s the idea. Montréal can’t afford a direct confrontation with Dremark—and we have no interest in allowing Dremark to push the Republic into one.” Markham looked around the table. “I think that covers the bases. Transition to warp at 1555; department heads, I’ll expect your readiness reports by 1300. Dismissed.”
The assembled department heads and junior officers rose as Captain Markham stood, and waited for her to exit. Then they began to gather up their dataslates, finish their coffees, and head for the hatch. Sikander quickly organized his own materials, thinking about what he needed to do next. Then his eye fell on Hiram Randall, who was topping off his own coffee. That business is unfinished.
“Mr. Randall, a word,” Sikander called.
Randall stopped and turned as the others filed out of the wardroom. “Mr. North?”
Sikander waited for the rest of the officers to leave, then shut the door behind them. He and Randall were alone in the wardroom. He studied Randall in silence for a moment; Randall regarded him coldly. “I have a lot to do,” he finally said. “What is it?”
“We did not finish our conversation at the Governor’s Ball,” said Sikander. “I am available to resume the discussion at your convenience.”
“I don’t think I have anything else to say to you, North.” Randall started to push past him.
Sikander threw out an arm and stopped the Aquilan. “Then perhaps we could meet in the gym tomorrow. We’ll pick a quiet time so that we can have the place to ourselves, and finish that conversation.”