The Oncoming Storm

by Christopher Nuttall

  The XO smirked. “And can you do anything for them?”

  “I doubt it,” Kat said. “I was never groomed to take an important place within the corporation.”

  She rose to her feet and started to pace the compartment. “How long do we have?”

  “I wish I knew,” the XO said. He stayed in his seat, watching her. “I’ll be speaking to my friends tomorrow night.”

  “Have fun,” Kat said. She wished she could go, but she knew the XO’s friends would talk much more freely without her around. “And tell them they will have my full support, if necessary.”

  “I wish it were that easy,” the XO said. “What about your family’s people within the system?”

  “Few of them are in any place to assist us,” Kat said, slowly. “But I do plan to talk to them when I have a moment.”

  The XO stood. “I’ll inform you of the outcome,” he said. “The only other problem right now is shore leave rota. There have been complaints.”

  “I know,” Kat said. She’d heard from Davidson that there had been grumbles. “But we’re not allowing the crew levels to drop below seventy percent, not now. I want to be ready to fight if the shit hits the fan.”

  The XO nodded. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Dismissed,” Kat said.

  She waited for him to leave, then sat back down at her desk and called up the file the admiral’s office had sent her. It was clear, alarmingly so, that Morrison had imported personal staff from Tyre and then put them on the occupation force’s budget. One staff member had sent Kat details of the frock the admiral expected her to wear at the party. Instead of a dress uniform he wanted her to wear a little black cocktail dress. She’d look good in it, Kat had to admit, but she wouldn’t look anything like a commanding officer. It would be hard to restore discipline if any of her crew saw her in the getup.

  Bastard, she thought, angrily. What the hell is his game?

  It was depressingly easy to hire a bar for the night, William discovered. The captain had given him a credit chip with a sizable balance, which had allowed him to reserve the entire bar, buy a considerable amount of alcohol, and give the staff the night off. It had required a deposit of an extra thousand crowns to secure their absence, but it was worth it. There would be no eavesdroppers when he and his friends met to discuss the situation. God alone knew what rumors would start if anyone overheard.

  We’d probably all get charged with plotting a mutiny, he thought as he watched Davidson and Corporal Kevin Loomis scan the entire bar for bugs. They’d already found and disabled a couple of monitors, but he was feeling paranoid. Or perhaps with using common sense in the vicinity of a senior officer.

  “It’s clean,” Davidson confirmed finally. “The security fields should ensure no one can overhear you.”

  William nodded. “Go back to the shuttle,” he ordered as he checked the bar himself. The supplier hadn’t bothered to do more than drop the crates of booze behind the bar. It didn’t bother him. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “No shore leave for us,” Davidson agreed. The Marines had to stagger their shore leave, just like everyone else. “Good luck, Commander.”

  “Thank you,” William said.

  It was nearly twenty minutes before the door opened for the first time, revealing Commander Fran Higgins. William smiled at her, then tossed her a bottle of beer and waved her to one of the chairs. She gave him a puzzled glance, but said nothing as the door opened again to allow two more officers to enter the bar. William passed them both drinks and smiled, waving away their questions. There would be time to talk once everyone had arrived.

  “William,” Commander Trent said, “is there a reason for this gathering?”

  “Patience,” William said. Trent was a friend, rather than a former subordinate. It put them on more equal terms. “I’ll get to the meat of the matter when everyone has arrived.”

  He couldn’t help noticing that several of the officers, perhaps suspecting the truth, had brought privacy generators of their own. His implants monitored the intermingling fields, decided they were suitable, then ignored them. He kept passing out bottles of beer, waiting for the final few officers to arrive. As soon as they entered the bar, he closed and locked the door before walking round the table and sitting down.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you here,” he said. There were some chuckles at a joke that had been old before humanity had reached for the stars. “Before we start, I should tell you we can speak freely. The bar is clean and there are at least twelve privacy generators operating within the room.”

  “Doesn’t look very clean,” Commander Jove said. He waved a hand towards a dark stain on the wall. “I dread to imagine what that is.”

  “Me too,” William said. As Jove had probably hoped, the jokey comment broke the ice. “I should also warn you that this discussion will be very sensitive. You were all invited because I trust you to have your heads screwed on properly—and to have enough sense to keep the subject of our discussion a secret. As far as anyone else is concerned, we’re meeting for a chat and a session of swapping lies about our heroic exploits.”

  He paused, trying to gauge their mood. Some of them, including Fran Higgins, seemed to understand what they were actually being told, others looked mildly bemused. And to think he hadn’t even reached the crux of the issue yet. It was quite possible that he’d misjudged one of them and they would be betrayed as soon as the meeting came to an end. The only upside of such a disaster was that it would be impossible for the admiral’s patrons to hide or cover up.

  “The Theocracy is preparing to invade this system,” he said flatly.

  There were no objections, much to his relief. Some of them would have already seen the writing on the wall, either through reports of pirate attacks or the simple decline of 7th Fleet into a mass of combat-ineffective units. None of them were stupid, after all; mustangs commonly had a very hard time of it until they proved themselves to officers who had been through Piker’s Peak, rather than rising from the ranks. And none of them trusted the Theocracy.

  He ran through the gathered evidence as quickly as possible, then pressed on. “I do not believe that anyone from Tyre will handle the situation in time to dissuade the Theocracy from attacking,” he warned. “We know there’s an enemy spy ship in the system right now. They will know just how weak we are—and how much damage they can do if they hit us within the next few weeks. And if that happens . . . are we in any state to beat them off?”

  “No,” Fran Higgins said.

  No one disagreed. William felt chills running down his spine. They’d all been can-do people when he’d met them, mustangs who had risen because they believed nothing could truly stop them. To see them so broken, so fatalistic, was disturbing. And yet, what could they do?

  “I don’t know what Admiral Morrison is playing at,” William said. “His patrons appointed him because they knew he wouldn’t rock the boat. But it’s equally possible he’s a traitor, someone in the pay of the Theocracy. Or he may simply be as incompetent and greedy as the evidence suggests. What I do know is that we need to make contingency plans to do something if—when—the Theocracy attacks.”

  Commander Trent leaned forward. “It seems to me, William, that you’re talking about mutiny.”

  William sighed, inwardly. “No,” he said. “I’m talking about doing our damn duty.”

  He took a breath. “It won’t be easy to repair the damage without higher authorities realizing what we’re doing,” he added flatly. “A sudden upswing in demands for spare parts alone would be noticeable. But we have to do what we can to prepare for a sudden attack on the system.”

  “Without anyone noticing,” Fran Higgins said. “You do realize that discipline is in the shitter?”

  “Time to get it out of the shitter,” William said. A crew could endure much, but not a slow decline in standards, followed by a demand to revert immediately to the old ways. It was one of the reasons military training was so damn
hard. “You can work with senior chiefs and petty officers to ensure that the really bad cases are dumped on the planet or assigned to punishment duties.”

  He paused. “Between us, we have over five hundred years worth of experience,” he said. “We ought to be able to think of something.”

  “Break up gambling rings by swapping crews round,” Trent suggested. “God knows we should be able to move crewmen round without getting our commanders to sign off on it.”

  William nodded. First officers had considerable power to handle crew transfers, duties that would merely waste their commander’s time. Any gambling—or worse—rings could be broken up and scattered over a dozen ships if there was any reason to believe those involved could be redeemed. And the real hard cases could simply be assigned permanently to the planet. That would probably sit very well with them until the Theocracy attacked.

  The thought caused William a flicker of guilt. He hadn’t attended to the gambling ring on Lightning yet. He’d hoped the problem would sort itself out, but he simply hadn’t had time to check. Making a mental note to see to it as soon as he returned to the ship, he sat back in his chair and listened as his friends discussed potential ideas. Training schedules could be fixed, given some time and effort; hell, with a little fiddling, they could be used to make the commanding officers look good. If presented properly, most commanders would simply sign off on it without considering the deeper implications.

  “The King’s Cup is being held in nine months,” Jove pointed out. “We could try to put together a team.”

  William had to smile. The King’s Cup was awarded to the starship with the finest gunnery crews in the fleet. It was an important award, which was at least partly why the commanding officers would want it for themselves. If they were convinced they had a chance to win, they’d resist the admiral if he started trying to prevent the crew from engaging in gunnery exercises. It wasn’t as if they would be preparing for war.

  “I have a question,” Commander Stroke said. “What happens if we are attacked before we have a chance to prepare the fleet for doing more than spitting helplessly in their general direction?”

  “We run,” William said simply.

  None of his friends looked happy at that prospect, but they all understood the situation. The 7th Fleet represented a vast investment, one that couldn’t be replaced in a hurry. The ships could be repaired, their crews could be retrained . . . but only if they got out of the trap before the Theocracy destroyed them. Keeping the ships intact was their first priority.

  Stroke scowled at him. “And what if we receive orders to fight to the death—or surrender?”

  William took a breath. Nothing he’d seen on Cadiz had convinced him that Admiral Morrison would command the fleet effectively, even if he was able to take command without problems. The admiral rarely showed his face on his flagship, preferring to command the system from Government House. An all-out attack on the system might start and finish before Morrison even managed to make it back to orbit, assuming the attack wasn’t coordinated with insurgents on the ground. It was what William would have done.

  And the Theocrats sent commandos to the system, he thought slowly. Were they meant to sneak into the secure zones and cause havoc?

  “We retreat,” he said. “Preserving the fleet is more important than trying to defend Cadiz.”

  “A few months of occupation by the Theocracy would teach them a lesson or two,” Fran Higgins muttered darkly. “Let them see what a real invasion force can do to helpless civilians.”

  “They’re not that helpless,” Trent pointed out mildly.

  “We operate under strict ROE,” Fran countered. “Our forces aren’t trying to reshape their society, merely trying to convince them to accept a role in the Commonwealth. The Theocracy, if the refugees are to be believed, will crush any resistance with maximum force, then start encouraging mass conversions to their faith. Cadiz will simply become another Theocratic world. And good riddance.”

  Stroke cleared his throat, loudly. “You’re talking about disobeying orders in the face of the enemy,” he said sharply. “That will get us all shot.”

  “Better we get shot than lose every ship in the fleet,” Trent snapped.

  William opened his mouth, but Stroke overrode him. “Or can your . . . captain guarantee we keep our lives?”

  It took William several seconds to calm his temper. “There are no guarantees of anything, beyond this,” he said icily. “The Theocracy is planning an invasion; 7th Fleet is in no condition to defend this system against overwhelming force. We are making contingency plans to take action in the event of an attack before we are ready to meet it.”

  He braced himself. “We swore to defend the Commonwealth when we signed up,” he added slowly. “I don’t intend to allow Admiral Morrison to weaken the defenses to the point the Theocracy can just walk in and take over. And nor should any of you.

  “If we are discovered, or betrayed”—he shot a sharp look at Stroke—“it is quite possible we will be charged with planning a mutiny,” he warned. “There will be no guarantees that the captain’s influence, such as it is, will save us from anything. But I don’t believe any of us were ever offered any guarantees when we signed on the dotted line and gave our lives to the Navy.”

  His gaze moved from face to face. “If you don’t want to take the risk of being involved,” he concluded, “you can back out now. As long as you keep your mouths shut, there shouldn’t be any danger, at least from your superior officers. The danger from the Theocracy will not go away.”

  There was a long pause. “Count me in,” Fran Higgins said finally. “But it will not be easy to get the supplies we need.”

  “We could always bribe the bureaucrats,” Stroke offered. “Or simply play silly buggers with the supply manifests.”

  There was a thought, William knew. The senior bureaucrats wouldn’t know anything was wrong if the junior bureaucrats helped their friends camouflage their actions. He might have to make some promises—the captain might have to make some promises—but it should be doable. If nothing else, a promise of guaranteed employment in the Falcone Consortium should unlock a few hearts and minds.

  The discussion raged backwards and forward for nearly two hours before William called it to a halt and produced a handful of datachips from his pocket. “These are cutting-edge encryption codes,” he said. It had been alarmingly easy to obtain them, a factoid he would not be including in any report to Tyre. “We can use them to send messages through the planetary datanet, if necessary.”

  He paused. “I think we should meet again three days from now,” he added. “That will give us time to see what needs to be done, then start planning to do it.”

  Stroke sighed. “And what if the bastards attack tomorrow?”

  William glowered at him. “We die,” he said. “Any more questions?”

  There were none. He smiled to himself, handed out a final round of beers, then dismissed his colleagues with a warning to stagger their return to outer space. A couple would probably seek solace in the arms of a prostitute before returning to their shuttles. It was hard to care about their choice, he knew, even though he didn’t have time to find companionship himself. There was no way to avoid one simple fact.

  The die was well and truly cast.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The admiral’s mansion was magnificent, Kat had to admit as the aircar descended towards the building. It resembled the Royal Palace on Tyre, but where the palace was built from white marble the admiral’s mansion was built of red brick. Brilliant lights illuminated the garden, allowing guests to make their way through the foliage even as night fell over Cadiz. Kat couldn’t help being reminded of her family estate on Tyre, though there were fewer guests there. Her family historically had so little privacy that it valued what it did have.

  She braced herself as the aircar touched down, then stood and adjusted her dress as the hatch hissed open. Candy would have loved the black dress, Kat knew, but she disli
ked showing off her body in this way. It wasn’t something she’d earned, not even something she’d paid for herself; her looks had been shaped by her father’s genetic engineers long before she’d been more than a glint in his eyes. The dress made her look younger than she was, young enough to pass for a teenager. If she’d shown up on the bridge wearing it . . .

  The thought made her smile as she stepped out of the aircar and looked towards the giant mansion. It was clear the admiral had decided to have some fun at the expense of his guests. The men all wore fancy uniforms, some dating all the way back to pre-space Earth, while the women all wore variants of the same cocktail dress Kat wore. Some of them had even cut the dresses shorter to expose as much of their legs as they could without showing underwear. Kat smirked at the thought of them bending over to pick something up, then smiled inwardly as a maid hurried towards her. What was it about powerful men, she asked herself, that they insisted on dressing their female servants in revealing outfits?

  Power, she thought. Her father didn’t indulge his power in such a manner, but his father had been born to wield power. He had never been insecure, not like the admiral and the newly rich. They flaunted their power out of fear it would fade away if it wasn’t displayed to the world. And yet they wouldn’t have obtained their Patents of Nobility if they hadn’t had the wealth and power to back them up.

  “Captain,” the maid said. She was clearly a local, her voice accented yet understandable. “The admiral requests the pleasure of your company in the reception room.”

  Kat sighed, inwardly. She would have preferred to wander the gardens. It had been clear, from a single glance, that absolutely nothing useful would be accomplished by attending the party. But the maid would be blamed for failing to convince Kat to attend upon the admiral . . .