The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [137]
Acknowledging his opinion with a nod, T’Leikha said, “Well, regardless of the praetor’s reasoning and motivations, it would seem to me that D’deridex’s order for the conquest of Haakona might be the very worst medicine the Empire could take at this point in her history.”
Although he agreed wholeheartedly with her appraisal, Valdore was still as bound by honor and law to uphold the praetor’s will as he was to protect the welfare of his fleet, his officers, and the Empire at large. Opening up a second front at Haakona, particularly at a time when preparations for the Coalition war were to be substantially accelerated at this critical juncture, was very likely the single worst idea he had ever heard, second only to the notion of surrendering outright to Earth. Therefore, he maintained a guarded expression as he carefully crafted a response.
“What the praetor has ordered is contrary to my military instincts,” he said at length.
“Which is another way of saying that your praetor has given you an impossible order.”
For all his reservations about the wisdom of the praetor’s plan, Valdore did not like what he was hearing. “With respect, First Consul, I would remind you that you owe D’deridex every allegiance, as do I.”
“Only for so long as he remains praetor,” T’Leikha said, her dark eyes taking on a cunning, calculating cast, like that of a patient hunter. “His symptoms appear to be worsening rapidly. In fact, his declining health may remove him from the praetorate very soon.”
Although Valdore had on more than one occasion considered accelerating D’deridex’s departure from the praetorate—he had contemplated the practicalities and ramifications of assassinating T’Leikha as well—he wasn’t comfortable discussing such matters aloud, even in veiled fashion.
“As I have said, the praetor is prone to forget his most... untoward orders shortly after giving them,” Valdore said. “There is no reason to suppose his newest directives are any different in that respect.”
“No reason,” T’Leikha said. “Except for the continuing decline in the praetor’s health.”
Valdore allowed himself to display a slightly bewildered expression. “I do not understand, First Consul.”
“You say he is forgetful,” she said, her voice taking on the more sonorous, lyrical quality she usually reserved for Senate debates. “When a man’s mortality begins to beckon in earnest, it can focus his attention like nothing else. The cold exhalations of death on the back of his neck may well give the praetor a sense of purpose that stands to make him far less forgetful than you might expect. Therefore he may actually hold you to a disastrous course of action this time.”
“Perhaps,” Valdore said, still trying to resist being drawn into any verbal trap that might give the praetor cause to relieve him of duty. “But as you say, First Consul, D’deridex is unwell and getting worse. A natural death may well remove him from the praetorate quite soon.”
T’Leikha rose and moved purposefully toward the door. Before exiting into the corridor, she said, “Perhaps. But are you willing to gamble that a natural death will intervene soon enough to save both your fleet and the Empire?”
Alone in the small conference chamber, Valdore considered one of the proverbs he had learned during his time in the Senate: “The honor of the praetor is the honor of the Empire.”
If that wise old saw was true with regard to honor, then it seemed to Valdore that it ought to be equally applicable to shame.
The admiral already carried the responsibility for one heinous and shameful act: the superfluous destruction of Coridan. He knew he would