The Oncoming Storm

by Christopher Nuttall

  “It will be my pleasure,” she lied smoothly.

  The maid led her through the gardens, up a long flight of stairs, and into the building itself. Kat’s first impressions didn’t fade as she looked round while they walked through a long corridor and down another flight of stairs. The building was crammed with artwork, each piece probably worth at least ten thousand crowns, gathered together merely to show off the sheer wealth of their owner. There was no elegance, Kat noted, nor any attempt to do more with them than just show off. The admiral was definitely one of the newly rich.

  She sighed again as the maid paused, nodding to a footman standing halfway down the stairs. The man stepped forward, then announced Kat in a loud, booming voice that echoed through the entire room. Men and women turned to look at her, their collective gaze under strict control. Kat kept her own face under control as she descended the final stairs and walked towards the admiral. Their emotionless faces suggested they were wondering just what she could do for them.

  “Lady Falcone,” Admiral Morrison said. He was wearing a uniform with so much gold braid that it threatened to blind anyone who looked at it. “Thank you for coming.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Kat lied. She couldn’t place the admiral’s uniform, but she had a feeling that whoever had designed it had hated officers. It would make an excellent target for a sniper watching from a distance. “How could I refuse your kind invitation?”

  Morrison either missed or chose to ignore the hints of sarcasm in her tone. Instead, he took her hand—his gaze flickered over her chest, then looked back at her eyes—and led her through the room, introducing her to dozens of people. Kat filed their names and titles away in her implants for further investigation, then chatted politely about nothing with each of them before the admiral led her to the next one. None of them seemed to have anything interesting to say.

  “It’s a disgrace that the brothels are allowed to remain open,” one elderly guest snapped, her hand catching Kat’s shoulder as though she was a young child. “The morals of our officers and men will suffer.”

  Kat resisted—barely—the temptation to slap her. She’d met far too many elderly women like her, women who saw themselves as anointed monitors of society. To them, life wasn’t complete unless they held the moral high ground and used it ruthlessly to lecture and belittle their juniors for not living up to their moral standards. But then, they were rarely actually powerful, if only because few would vote them into power. Their preaching and whining was all they had.

  “They should be shut down,” the woman continued. She hadn’t let go of Kat’s arm. “And the sheer quantity of alcohol swigged by serving men and women is dreadful . . .”

  “It is also all that makes serving here bearable,” Kat said, feeling her patience snap. Her training had its limits, particularly when she knew shore leave facilities were a vital necessity for the health and morale of her crew. “And besides, do you think they wouldn’t be able to find companions and alcohol if the spaceport bars were closed?”

  The woman stared at Kat as though she had started speaking in tongues. “I . . .”

  “Do you have the slightest idea,” Kat asked, “why the bars and brothels exist?”

  Admiral Morrison interrupted before the woman could think of a response. “Katherine Falcone,” he said, “there’s someone I would like you to meet.”

  “Of course,” Kat said smoothly. The woman was gaping at her in shock. It would be dangerous to her reputation in society to badmouth a Falcone. “I would be honored to talk with someone intelligent.”

  Admiral Morrison led her across the room and through a large door, which led into a dance hall. A band was sitting on the dais, murdering a tune that Kat vaguely recognized as having been fashionable ten years ago. Guests didn’t seem to be following any set dance, she decided; couples were merely moving round the hall, hand in hand. It wasn’t the sort of dancing Kat enjoyed, though she had to admit it had its moments, but only when she was dancing with someone she actually liked.

  “Katherine Falcone,” the admiral said, “I’d like you to meet my son, Adam Morrison.”

  Kat took one look and just knew they weren’t going to get on. Everything she knew about the admiral told her that he would do anything to maintain his position and the favor of his patrons because his position could be undermined quite easily. Adam Morrison lacked even that level of self-awareness. His face was strikingly handsome, so handsome it was almost bland. The suit he wore, rather than a fake uniform, was cut tightly enough to show off his muscles to best advantage. But it was clear, from the way he moved, that he had no training at all.

  “Charmed,” Kat lied once again.

  She had to fight to keep her face under control, particularly when Adam’s eyes dropped towards her chest. She knew what was happening. The admiral’s son was unmarried—and the admiral had ambitions. Even a short marriage between Adam Morrison and Kat could secure the admiral’s place in High Society. She sighed, inwardly. It was hardly the first time someone had tried to introduce her to his children. But it said a great deal about High Society that Adam wasn’t the worst she’d encountered.

  “Charmed,” Adam echoed. He held out one hand. “Shall we dance?”

  Kat took his hand and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. He wasn’t a bad dancer, she discovered to her surprise, but his hands kept creeping downwards as he whirled her round the room. The admiral was nowhere to be seen after the first dance, depriving Kat of any easy excuse to escape. Instead, she found herself pulled into a second dance.

  “I understand you’re in command of a destroyer,” Adam said, putting his lips close to her ears. “Do you enjoy being in command?”

  “A cruiser,” Kat corrected icily. “And command is enjoyable.”

  “I bet it is,” Adam said. He leered at her, his hands crawling downwards again. “And do you ever want to just relax?”

  Kat stepped backwards, forcing him to jerk his hands back up. “I walk fifty miles a day to relax,” she said, “and then spar with marines.”

  “I spar with marines too,” Adam said. “Do you know I hold a reserve commission in the planetary militia?”

  “No,” Kat said. She was sure Adam didn’t spar with anyone, just from the way he moved. A graduate of Piker’s Peak unarmed combat course could have taken him. “What do you do in the militia?”

  “I command the reserve defense unit,” Adam informed her. “We aced our last evaluation.”

  “You must have a wonderful sergeant,” Kat said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “What does he do for you?”

  “He takes the burden of command off my shoulders,” Adam said.

  He keeps you from getting everyone killed in training exercises, Kat translated mentally. It wasn’t uncommon for young noblemen to hold reserve commissions, but it was clear that Adam didn’t even meet the bare requirements. Even her older brothers were expected to spend at least three days a month with their units. Poor bastard.

  “Come on outside,” Adam urged. He pulled her towards a large pair of doors that led out into the gardens. “You’ll love it.”

  He would have been right, Kat decided, if he hadn’t been with her. Whoever had designed and shaped the gardens had done so as a labor of love. Instead of the sheer tackiness of the building’s interior, there were flowers, bushes, and trees planted according to a pattern that pleased the eye, also serving as a home for all kinds of wildlife.

  “It can be a hard life out here,” Adam observed as he led her down to a large pond. “I rarely speak to anyone my equal.”

  Kat had to bite down a laugh. On Cadiz, Admiral Morrison and his family were at the very pinnacle of High Society. They could distribute patronage freely while everyone looked up to them as something to emulate. But on Tyre they’d be nothing more than junior aristocrats at best. Adam was deluding himself if he thought he could go back to the core of the Commonwealth and still be top dog. There were people back home who wouldn’t hesitate to poke
his bubble if he tried to maintain the illusion.

  That might be why the admiral introduced us, she thought. A marriage would improve their status immeasurably.

  It would also not be approved, she knew. She was the youngest child, without the obligations of her elders, but she only had her trust fund in her own name. If her father decided not to approve the match, she wouldn’t be granted any voting stock or anything else she could use to influence politics. Admiral Morrison’s dreams of marrying his son into the highest tier of the aristocracy would crash and burn . . .

  . . . and Kat knew she wouldn’t accept Adam in any case.

  “How lucky for you,” Kat said. She looked up. The moon was slowly rising in the sky, casting an eerie light over the scene. “I think we should go inside now.”

  “There’s no one in there but boring people,” Adam said. His voice became a whine. “Wouldn’t it be better to stay outside?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kat said. She couldn’t quibble with his assessment of the party guests, but she did need to speak to some of her fellow commanding officers. Perhaps one or two of them could be talked into helping prepare 7th Fleet for combat. “You should be showing your face to the guests.”

  “They don’t care about either of us,” Adam said. He reached for her hand and caught hold of it, pulling her towards him. “Wouldn’t it be much more fun to . . .”

  His lips met hers. Kat froze for a second in genuine astonishment—no aristocratic buck she’d ever met had crossed the line so blatantly—and then she pulled her hand free and shoved his chest, hard. He lost his footing and tumbled backwards, falling over the edge of the pond and hitting the water with a giant splash. Kat smirked, then carefully pulled her dress back into place. She couldn’t help wondering, despite the seriousness of the situation, just what Adam would tell his father.

  “You are an idiot,” she said as Adam surfaced. It was clear that the pond was deeper than she’d thought. His fancy uniform was dripping wet, completely ruined. The nasty part of Kat’s mind hoped it had cost hundreds of crowns. “Did you really think I would give myself to you out here?”

  Adam stared at her in shock. Kat glared back, recognizing the symptoms. Adam, like far too many aristocrats, had been raised in an environment where no one could say no. From some of the things Kat’s elder brothers had muttered when they thought she couldn’t hear, their father had been much less permissive than some of the other fathers on Tyre. But then, they were being groomed to take his place.

  “Stay there until I’m gone,” Kat ordered. She was tempted to ask him just what his father had said, but she didn’t want to talk to him any more than necessary. “And I suggest you think about what could have happened.”

  She turned and walked back to the building, straightening her dress further as she walked. Behind her, she heard splashing, but nothing else. She listened anyway, half expecting to hear him come charging after her. Thankfully, he had more sense than to believe he could just give chase and catch her before it was too late. It was already too late.

  Shaking her head in disbelief, she slipped through a side entrance and made her way into the nearest refresher. It was empty, surprisingly; normally, the bathrooms were packed with women chatting about men. She paused and then looked at herself in the mirror, feeling her heartbeat finally starting to race. Her training had kept it under control until she was safe.

  I’ve had worse, she told herself firmly. Vacuum training at Piker’s Peak had been nightmarish. She’d shaken for hours afterwards, the first time. And then there had been unarmed combat training . . . it had been her first real experience with physical violence and it had shocked her. There were female marines, she knew, but she couldn’t have been one of them. She just didn’t have the endurance.

  She washed her face and then forced herself to think coldly and rationally. She could file a complaint, she knew, but it wasn’t enough to have Adam convicted of anything, let alone take down his father with him. It would look like a date gone wrong, rather than attempted rape; hell, she wasn’t even sure if he had wanted to rape her. She’d met enough aristocrats who had refused to press any further when it was clear their attentions were unwanted. The whole situation would not only look very bad, but it would distract attention from the very real problems facing 7th Fleet.

  Bastard, she thought. She checked her implants and noted the time. If she spent another hour chatting to the other captains, she could leave afterwards without upsetting the Grand Masters and Mistresses of Etiquette. Cursing, she looked down at her dress. It would be hard enough to convince them to take her seriously without wearing a dress that made her look like a damned teenager . . .

  The admiral must have wanted me to look attractive for his son, she thought. Oddly, the thought made her smile. I wonder if he still likes me.

  The building shook. Moments later, she heard the sound of shooting.

  Insurgents, she thought, horrified. She’d checked the map. The building was over a hundred miles from the closest settlement. But the sound of shooting—and screams—echoing through the building suggested the insurgents had managed to get an attack force into place anyway. Another explosion rung out, sending pieces of plaster dropping from the ceiling and down to the floor. Kat shook herself out of her shock and activated her implants, trying to send a distress signal. Moments later, a warning message popped up in front of her eyes.

  DATANET DOWN, it read. The local data nodes had been corrupted—or simply destroyed. She remembered the maid, a local girl with access to the building, and shivered as a second message popped up. UNABLE TO ACCESS PLANETARY NET.

  Kat swallowed a curse, unsure what to do. Outside, the sound of shouting and screaming was growing louder. The insurgents had clearly broken into the building. Her training had never covered combat on the ground, at least not in anything other than theoretical detail. They’d always been told to leave ground combat to the Marines.

  Get out, she told herself. Someone had to have noticed that Morrison’s mansion had come under attack. But this was Cadiz. No one had impressed her with their competence since she’d first set foot on the planet. Get to the aircars and contact the Marines. Or . . .

  She froze. The door was opening.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Hands in the air,” the insurgent snapped.

  Kat obeyed, studying the insurgent carefully. He wore a black mask that concealed his features, but she was sure he was male—and young. It was clear he had received some training, just from the way he held his weapon, but it wasn’t complete. She wasn’t too surprised. The insurgent masterminds had to know anyone assigned to attacking the admiral’s mansion was unlikely to return. They wouldn’t waste their best men on such an operation.

  “I’m just a maid,” she said, trying to stammer convincingly. Her name and face had been flashed across the planet’s society pages, but the little black dress made her look completely different. “I . . .”

  She straightened, trying to push her breasts forward. The insurgent’s eyes dipped, just slightly. It was possible, she told herself, as he advanced on her, that he wasn’t as well disciplined as he should be. Did he know it was a suicide mission?

  Kat braced herself as he came into reach, then looked up pleadingly into his eyes. He looked amused rather than suspicious. Kat shoved the gun to one side and slammed her fist into his throat. He choked, then stumbled to the floor. She let out a sigh of relief as he let go of the rifle without pulling the trigger and alerting his companions that something had gone wrong.

  Taking the rifle, she checked it quickly. It was an unfamiliar design, but the principles were almost identical to weapons she’d used at Piker’s Peak. She held it in one hand, then searched the insurgent with the other. He was also carrying a small pistol and several clips of ammunition. Kat picked them up and cursed. Her dress didn’t have any pockets for storing bullets. She tore off his mask and used it as a makeshift carry.

  She stepped over to the door, listened carefully, th
en stuck her head outside. There was no one in the corridor as far as she could tell, but she could hear the sound of loud protests in the distance. She wondered, absently, just where the admiral had gone before deciding it didn’t matter. If the insurgents had any sense, they’d make damn sure they didn’t kill him. His replacement could hardly be any less competent. Gritting her teeth, she advanced out of the room, trying desperately to remember the way back to the aircars. Perhaps it would be better to slip out of the door and move round in the gardens . . .

  An insurgent was guarding the door. Kat cursed under her breath as she yanked her head back, then tried to think of something else she could do. Of course the insurgents would be guarding all the exits and entrances . . . she turned and headed towards the stairs. If the admiral was even remotely competent, there would be a spare communications suite in his bedroom, automatically linked into the fleet command network. It was a gamble, but she couldn’t think of anything better. She knew she couldn’t singlehandedly beat however many insurgents there were.

  She froze as she reached the stairs, then ducked into the shadows as she heard people—several people—moving towards her. Three of them were insurgents, she realized as they came into view, but the others were maids and manservants. They weren’t prisoners either, she noted, unsurprised. Clearly, the insurgents had been plotting the operation for quite some time. Local labor was cheaper than importing servants from Tyre—and besides, the locals couldn’t demand better treatment under Commonwealth Law. As long as they seemed trustworthy, she knew, they would be hired.

  The thought made her shiver as the insurgents walked past and vanished into the distance. How many local men and women were working at the spaceport? Or in the government complexes scattered all over the planet? Hell, the prostitutes alone probably heard enough pillow talk to keep the insurgents informed of everything that happened on the planet before it hit the media. The only thing preventing a general uprising, she knew, was 7th Fleet and the orbital defenses.