The Oncoming Storm

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Evasive action, deploy decoys,” Kat ordered. The minute rapidly ticked down to zero. “Fire at will; I say again, fire at will.”

  She braced herself as the enemy opened fire. Even at extreme range, even with decoys, her ship took hit after hit. If they’d been firing at closer range, she knew all too well, Lightning would have been atomized as quickly as Amherst.

  “Shields are taking a pounding,” Roach reported. The entire ship started to quiver, as if raindrops were falling on the hull. “They’re breaking through . . .”

  “Reroute all nonessential power to rear shields,” Kat ordered. It might keep them alive a few seconds longer. The enemy commander was ignoring 6th Fleet in his determination to catch the fleeing refugees. “Continue firing.”

  “Sultan is gone,” the XO reported. On the display, there was nothing more than an expanding cloud of debris where a light cruiser had been seconds ago. “They’re retargeting their weapons . . .”

  “The transports are ready to leave,” Ross snapped.

  “Open a vortex,” Kat ordered. “Get us out of . . .”

  The entire ship bucked like a maddened horse. Kat clung desperately to her command chair as the lights flickered, then came slowly back to life. The display vanished and then slowly booted up again, covered in red icons. The entire lower rear section of the ship seemed to be completely pulverized. If the vortex generator was gone . . .

  “The generator is fluctuating, but still online,” Lynn reported. “Recommend we get the hell out of here!”

  “Open a vortex,” Kat ordered. Lightning was losing speed as her drive field started to fail. It wouldn’t be long before she was blown into atoms. “Get us out of here!”

  The lights dimmed again, then the vortex shimmered into life on the display and they plunged forward into hyperspace. Moments later, the portal snapped closed behind them.

  They had escaped—but only barely. And her ship was too badly damaged to be considered combat capable any longer.

  “Set course for Gamma Base,” she ordered. She shook her head, wiping sweat off her brow. Force Two had started the battle with nine ships, but only three of them had survived, all badly damaged. If the enemy gave chase now, they were doomed. “Best possible speed; 6th Fleet can catch us up later.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the XO said.

  Kat rose to her feet. They’d won, for a certain value of won. The mission had been a success, but it had cost them dearly. She couldn’t help feeling that they hadn’t won anything in the long run. But they had given the Theocracy a bloody nose.

  Perhaps that’s all we need right now, she thought. Proof the Theocracy can actually be beaten.

  She shook her head. It wasn’t reassuring at all.

  And civilians will still see Cadiz in enemy hands, she thought. They might see it as a defeat.

  “Order engineering to start repair work as soon as possible,” she said. It was possible that they wouldn’t be able to make it back to Gamma Base without help. “And signal the remaining transports. I want a full head count as soon as possible.”

  And then, she added to herself, we might know if the battle was worth it after all.

  Admiral Christian stared at the display, silently calculating the odds.

  He could press the offensive, he knew. The enemy superdreadnoughts had to have emptied their missile magazines completely. There might not be a better chance to smash four squadrons of superdreadnoughts with long-range fire, hammering the enemy ships from outside their energy range. And yet . . . he could win the battle, but not the war.

  No one knew how many superdreadnoughts the Theocracy possessed. Four squadrons might be a large fraction of their military—or it might be tiny, a drop in the ocean of their naval might. No matter how he looked at the problem, he knew he didn’t dare risk prolonging the engagement and overplaying his hand. His 6th Fleet was the sole intact Commonwealth naval squadron for seventy light years. It had to be preserved.

  And they’ll be sending more attack fleets than just this one into our territory, he thought. I’ll have to oppose them elsewhere.

  “Signal all ships,” he ordered. “It’s time to take our leave.”

  Chapter Forty

  Admiral Junayd sat in his cabin, staring down at the knife in his hand.

  He’d lost. He knew he’d lost. The enemy had reentered the system, devastated the forces on the ground, then escaped with a number of former POWs . . . and they’d taken out the facilities orbiting Cadiz VII. By trying to avoid a futile engagement, he’d accidentally ensured that the battle, although a tactical success, was a strategic defeat. And he’d shot his ships completely dry in the process.

  And worst of all, he knew, was the simple fact he owed his mere survival to the enemy commander. If their fleet had pushed the offensive after their transports had retreated into hyperspace, he would have had to retreat himself and flee through hyperspace, knowing that he couldn’t even fight back if they came after him. He owed his life to an enemy officer . . .

  He lifted the knife, admiring the light glinting off the blade. He’d done everything right, he told himself; he had prayed, he had served the Theocratic Navy well . . . and he’d thought he’d been rewarded with his command. But everything had turned to ash. His defeat would mean certain disgrace, now that he looked to have lost the favor of God. Enemies would turn on him, friends would shy away from him, and even his wives would eye him doubtfully. He’d lost a battle he should have won. Was there a reason God no longer favored him?

  But I did nothing wrong, he protested, mentally. I did everything right!

  The thought was a bitter one, but it had to be faced. Were they doing the right thing?

  It wasn’t something he had ever questioned, not really. The True Faith’s history had taught the foolishness of turning the other cheek to those who would destroy them. They had once been pacifists, intent on developing themselves and serving as a beacon of hope to others. No more. Those who had mocked and attacked them were dead, while the True Faith lived on. Their mere survival seemed a sign of God’s blessing . . .

  Yet he’d lost a battle.

  Could it be that they were wrong? Could it be that all their other conquests were the result of invading worlds too poor or idealistic or stupid to raise the forces to defend themselves? He had always seen that as a sign of God’s favor. But might it have been a temptation instead?

  He pushed the thought aside, bitterly. It no longer mattered. All that mattered was expatiating his failure before it was too late. His wives and children wouldn’t suffer if he admitted his guilt through suicide. He would no longer fail his people . . .

  The hatch sprang open. Three men in red robes ran into the cabin. Junayd had only a moment to recognize them as Inquisitors before the first one knocked the knife out of his hand, then sent him flying to the deck. His hands were wrenched behind his back and secured with heavy chains, followed by his feet. And then he was rolled over and forced to look up into the eyes of his cleric.

  “Admiral,” the cleric said, his voice very flat, “you will be taken back to face the Speaker for your failure.”

  Of course, Junayd thought bitterly. The cleric will be blamed for my failure unless he manages to put all the blame on me.

  But if he was put on trial, his wives and children would be held to account for his failures too . . .

  He opened his mouth to argue, but it was already too late. Something touched his neck and he plunged into darkness.

  “I’m sorry for taking you away from your work, Commander,” Major Rogers said. He was a typical intelligence officer, wearing a uniform without any rank markings or other insignia, his face so bland as to be completely unnoticeable. “But we do have to talk to you.”

  “It’s fine,” William said numbly. They’d returned to Gamma Base only to hear that three more attack fleets had crossed the border. Hebrides, his homeworld, was under enemy occupation. He had no idea what had happened to his remaining family. Their great victory now seemed
like a sham. “What can I do for you?”

  “Your captain recommended you for promotion and your own command,” Rogers said. “But we need you—and your connections—for something else.”

  William nodded, unsurprised. He’d expected his links to a smuggler gang to be either exploited or used against him. Now that the war had broken out, it was quite possible that someone in intelligence thought they could make use of his family connections, with threats of dishonorable discharges if he refused to cooperate. He had left it out of his file, after all.

  “Yes,” he said. He was damned if he was calling this young officer sir. “What do you want me to do for you?”

  “We have an operation in the planning stages, with the intent to launch once the war front settles down,” Rogers said. “Your brother may be able to assist us.”

  “You’ll have to pay him through the nose,” William warned. The captain had massively overpaid Scott for what he’d offered, although he had to admit it had paid off for her. “He doesn’t have any sense of loyalty to anyone.”

  Rogers lifted his eyebrows in pretend shock. “Even his own brother?”

  “He’s a smuggler,” Williams pointed out tartly. “Family loyalty is not considered something to sell or buy, thus he wants nothing to do with it.”

  “I see,” Rogers said. “And he won’t help you for free?”

  William shook his head.

  “Then we will find something to offer him,” Rogers said. “A reward to match the risk we expect him to take. His crimes wiped, perhaps; the chance to go legit after the war. Does that sound worthwhile?”

  “Yes,” William said flatly. “But you will need to be careful. Scott is not a very trusting person.”

  “Understood,” Rogers said. He stood. “We’ll contact you when ready, Commander. And good luck with your ship.”

  He walked out of the compartment, leaving William alone.

  It was clear what he wanted from Scott, William considered. Navigational data for Theocratic space, perhaps even assistance in linking up with underground movements already within the Theocracy. And then . . . William knew better than to expect Scott to put his life on the line for the Commonwealth. Rogers would probably have to arrange for starships to enter Theocratic space and start raiding behind the lines. They might tie down some local defenders and give the Theocracy some major supply problems.

  Shaking his head, William rose to his feet. That was all in the future, if anything came of it at all. Until then, he had work to do.

  “This seems very exposed,” Kat said as she sat down facing her father’s seat. Her implants reported more than a hundred privacy fields in the dining hall. “Is this a good place to meet?”

  Her father was staring out of the window, peering out over Tyre City. After a long moment, he turned to face her. Kat was struck by the change in his appearance in the five months since they’d last met, before she’d assumed command of Lightning. He looked older, although she couldn’t have said why. Perhaps it was something in his bearing, she told herself. He’d been over sixty when his wife had given birth to his youngest daughter.

  “It’s important to show people we’re not worried,” Lucas Falcone said finally. “And we are far from alone.”

  Kat glanced round the dining hall, catching sight of two more dukes, several minor aristocracy, the third space lord, a number of society reporters and . . .

  “Is that the king?”

  “Indeed it is,” her father said. His voice was very grave. “And I believe you will recognize the woman with him.”

  Kat felt her eyes narrow. “Princess Drusilla,” she said. “What the hell is she doing here?”

  “Officially, His Majesty intends to use her as a tool when the Theocracy is finally defeated,” her father informed her. “Unofficially . . . she’s taken up residence in the Royal Palace and they’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

  Kat shook her head in disbelief. “The security issues alone . . .”

  “His Majesty has always been a stubborn man,” her father said. “And, as far as anyone can tell, she’s clean. No implants, no direct conditioning, no brainwashing . . . she’s quite ignorant in many ways, but she doesn’t seem dangerous.”

  Kat frowned, then turned back to her father. “Why did you ask me to come here?”

  “You’re quite the hero,” her father said. “Your presence here will be as reassuring as his.”

  “Oh,” Kat said.

  The media had been harassing her since Lightning had returned to Tyre, the ship so badly damaged that it would need at least two months in the yards before she was fit to return to active service. Kat had been told she was considered young, beautiful, glamorous, competent, and valiant. But she also knew that none of those things staved off missile fire.

  She took a breath, forcing herself to calm down. “And is there another reason for us to meet here?”

  Her father smiled. “We could always discuss your romantic life,” he said. “I note that you and young Davidson have been sharing an apartment . . .”

  Kat flushed. After Second Cadiz, all the objections to having a relationship no longer seemed even remotely valid. They could both die at any moment. She’d taken him into her cabin as soon as he’d returned to Lightning, then moved into an apartment on Tyre with him. It wasn’t a relationship she knew her family would approve of—Davidson had nothing to offer the Falcone Consortium—but she didn’t care. She had her own career now.

  And it was none of her father’s business.

  “No,” she snapped. “I don’t want to talk about my romantic life.”

  “As you wish,” her father said without taking offense. “There is another issue, then.”

  He leaned forward, as if he wished to whisper despite the privacy fields. “I still don’t know who was backing Admiral Morrison.”

  Kat shook her head. “Who could hide his manipulations from you?”

  “Someone with as much power and influence as myself,” her father said grimly. “I believe someone wanted to ensure that there was no chance of a war—or further expansion by force—and chose Admiral Morrison to serve as his agent. He could be relied upon to do nothing more than party on Cadiz. Politically, it’s understandable.”

  “They crossed the line into outright treason,” Kat muttered. “Even if their first piece of reasoning was sound, the whole scheme was failing as war came closer and closer, no matter what we did.”

  “Indeed,” her father agreed. “But that also gives them a great deal of incentive to bury their tracks.”

  Kat couldn’t disagree. Political manipulation for tactical advantage was common within the aristocracy, but this had almost cost the Commonwealth the war in its opening stages. If the people behind Admiral Morrison had intended to commit treason—and she couldn’t imagine how they benefited—they would have covered their tracks very well. But they would have done the same if the war had been a horrendous accident. Hundreds of thousands dead, four worlds under enemy occupation, nearly sixty starships destroyed . . . someone would have to take the blame. And even for a duke, it would be catastrophic.

  She turned and looked round the dining hall. Was she sitting in the same room as the traitor—or the useful idiot? There was no way to know.

  “The war will continue,” her father said. “The declaration of war has seen to that, I believe.”

  Kat nodded. The king’s speech to his people had been magnificent. He’d warned there would be hardships ahead, that there would be many dark days to come, but concluded by informing his subjects that there was no doubt the Commonwealth would eventually emerge victorious from the fires of war. The Theocracy was powerful and dangerous, yet it was far from invincible. Second Cadiz had proved that beyond a doubt.

  “We will win,” she said. “Their system wasn’t designed for a major war.”

  “Neither was ours,” her father pointed out. “But I believe we have a larger workforce, a greater technological base, and a far larger merchant marine
. We have advantages we should be able to use to win.”

  Assuming our theories about the Theocracy are correct, Kat thought silently. Few of the defectors or POWs from Cadiz had been able to tell the interrogators anything useful. But nothing we’ve seen suggests the Theocracy is geared up to fight a long war.

  “And we can hardly back away,” she added. “They won’t let us come to any agreement, other than outright submission.”

  “True,” her father agreed.

  He leaned back in his chair, then met her eyes. “I’m proud of you, Katherine.”

  “But not proud enough to call me by my chosen name,” Kat said. Still, she couldn’t help feeling warm inside at his obvious pride. “Or to avoid using me to do your dirty work.”

  Her father nodded, then waved to the waitress. “Order whatever you want,” he said. “Tomorrow . . . I’m afraid Candy wants you.”

  Kat sighed. Her sister had been holding society balls to encourage aristocrats to support the war since the lockdown on Tyre had come to an end. Kat wasn’t sure who her sister thought she was fooling, but she doubted the Theocracy was remotely intimidated. The Commonwealth had already made a massive commitment to support the war.

  “I have work to do,” she said quickly.

  “Tough,” her father said. “The party itself will be worthless, of course, but there will be some . . . private discussion in the back rooms. Your advice would be welcome.”

  “Yes, Father,” Kat said. She took the menu the waitress handed her, then skimmed through it, rolling her eyes. Everything on the list seemed to have been renamed with a victory theme, as if it was a vital contribution towards winning the war. “I’ll have the Victorious Curry with Starship Rice.”

  Her father laughed. “Some people are trying to help,” he said. “But . . .”

  “It isn’t very helpful,” Kat said.

  “Keeping people calm is our first priority,” her father said. He nodded towards the giant window. “Panic down there will make it harder to fight the war.”