I don’t think so, Jeffrey thought. Alone, the Union against the Land of the Chosen would be a match between the hammer and the egg. Not quite as easy a victim as the Empire had been, of course. For one thing the terrain was worse, for another it was farther away, and for a third the country wasn’t quite so backward. Still, I see his point. And the Land wasn’t about to simply invade the Union. That would mean war with Santander, and the Chosen weren’t ready . . . yet.
Neither was Santander.
“Those whores are what’s wrong, them and those like them.”
Jeffrey did a quick scan across the other table, then turned and let Center freeze the picture in front of him, magnifying until they all seemed to be at arm’s length.
“I don’t think they’re professionals,” he said.
Vincen flushed more deeply; it was a little disconcerting to see a man actually sweating with hate.
“Elite,” he said, using the Fransay term for the upper classes. “Merdechiennes are losing their power, so they call in foreigners to prop it up for them.”
“Well, two can play at that game,” Jeffrey said.
The Unionaise gave him a sharp look Santander had taken several substantial bites out of the western border of the Union, in the old wars. Jeffrey smiled warmly.
“We’re not territorially expansive . . . not anymore, at least.”
Of course, much of the western Union was an economic satellite of the Republic these days, and the Travailleur—Worker—party didn’t like it one little bit. Despite the fact that without that investment, its members would still be scratching out a living farming rocks as metayers, paying half the crop to a landlord.
Vincen grunted. “As you say. We have the evidence now. General Libert is definitely in correspondence with Land agents. They offer transport for his Legion troops back to the mainland.”
Center called up a map for Jeffrey. The Union del Est covered a big chunk of the southern lobe of Visager’s main continent, between Santander and the sort-of-republic of Sierra. South of it wasn’t much but ocean right down to the south polar ice cap, but there were a series of fairly substantial islands, some independent, some held by the Republic or the Union.
“Libert’s on Errif, isn’t he? That’s quite a ways out, seven hundred kilometers or so. Can’t your navy squadron in Bassin du Sud keep him bottled up?”
The Legion were the best troops the Union had, and mostly foreigners at that. They were the ones who’d finally beaten the natives on Errif, after a war where the Union regulars nearly got thrown back into the sea And there were large units of Errifan natives under Union officers on the islands too, now. They’d probably be about as tough fighting against the Union government as they had been in the initial war.
“The navy is loyal to the government, yes,” Vincen said. “But the Land, they offer air transport if there is a matching military uprising on the mainland.”
Jeffrey whistled silently, remembering the air assault on Corona in the opening stages of the Imperial war. Can’t fault the Chosen on audacity, he thought. Errif was a lot further from their bases. Overfly the Union, he thought, calculating distances. They could at that; the Landisch Luftanza had a concession to run a route that way. Refuel at sea, from ships brought round the continent in international waters. Yes, it’s possible. Just. You had to be ready to take chances in war; otherwise it turned into a series of slugging matches. Big risks could have big payoffs . . . or disaster, if things went into the pot.
“Why don’t you recall him and jail him?” Jeffrey asked. “Before he has a chance to rebel.”
Vincen clenched his fists. “Because this coalition so-called government has even less balls than it has brains!” His half-howl brought stares from the tables around them, and he lowered his voice. “Us, the damned syndicalists, the regional autonomists—everyone but the twice-damned anarchists and separatists, and name of a dog! We have to keep them sweet, too, because we need their votes in the Chambre du Delegats.”
He made a disgusted sound through his teeth, hands waving. Unionaise were like Imperials that way: tie their hands and they were struck dumb as a fish.