“So,” he said instead, “should I assume that no formal protest of MacDonnell’s actions will be addressed to Grayson?”

“You should,” High Ridge replied. He, too, seemed almost grateful for the change of subject. “That’s not to say that we won’t be speaking to Protector Benjamin about the high handedness with which he exercised his undoubted rights under his treaty with us. There are, as Admiral Stokes pointed out, proper procedural channels through which such a transit should have been arranged without causing such mammoth dislocation of normal Junction operations. But that, I’m afraid, is as far as we’re going to be able to go under the current circumstances.”

“I don’t like it,” Janacek grumbled. “And I’m especially not going to like having to pretend to be civil to their precious High Admiral Matthews after this, either. But if we don’t have a choice, then I suppose we don’t have a choice.”

“If we survive in power, we may be able to find a way to make our displeasure felt at a later date,” High Ridge told him. “But to be completely honest, Edward, even that’s unlikely. I think this is just one of those insults we’re going to have to swallow in the name of political expediency. Not,” the Prime Minister assured the First Lord grimly, “that I intend to forget it, I assure you.”

· · • · ·

Secretary of State Arnold Giancola sat in his office and stared at his chrono. Another nine hours. That was all.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his comfortable chair while a complex storm of emotions whirled and battered against the back of his bland expression.

He’d never planned on this. He admitted that to himself, although it wasn’t easy for him to concede the collapse of his plans. He remained convinced that he’d read the Manties correctly; it was Eloise Pritchart he had catastrophically underestimated. Her, and her control over Thomas Theisman. Or perhaps he’d been wrong there, too. He’d never expected her to be able to drag Theisman into supporting any open act of war even if she’d had the nerve to contemplate one—not after how hard the Secretary of War had fought against even admitting Bolthole existed. But perhaps all along, Theisman had possessed the intestinal fortitude to unflinchingly contemplate a resumption of military operations and Giancola, deceived by his insistence on concealing his new fleet until it was ready, simply hadn’t recognized it.

But wherever Giancola’s error had lain, it was too late to undo it now. Even if he commed the President this instant, confessed all he’d done, and showed her the originals of the Manties’ diplomatic notes, it was still too late. The Navy was in motion, and no one in the Haven System could possibly recall it in time to stop the Thunderbolt from striking.

He could have stopped it, he admitted to himself. He could have stopped it before it ever began. Could have stopped it before Pritchart ever appeared before Congress in the blazing majesty of her righteous indignation, laid the Manties’ “duplicity” before it, and carried her request for what amounted to a declaration of war by a majority of over ninety-five percent. Could have stopped it even after that, if he’d been prepared to confess his actions and accept the consequences before the final activation order had been sent to Javier Giscard.