Professionally Published Books by Christopher G. Nuttall
The Embers of War
Debt of Honor
Debt of Loyalty
Angel in the Whirlwind
The Oncoming Storm
Falcone Strike
Cursed Command
Desperate Fire
The Hyperspace Trap
ELSEWHEN PRESS
The Royal Sorceress
The Royal Sorceress (Book I)
The Great Game (Book II)
Necropolis (Book III)
Sons of Liberty (Book IV)
Bookworm
Bookworm
Bookworm II: The Very Ugly Duckling
Bookworm III: The Best Laid Plans
Bookworm IV: Full Circle
Inverse Shadows
Sufficiently Advanced Technology
Stand-Alone
A Life Less Ordinary
The Mind’s Eye
TWILIGHT TIMES BOOKS
Schooled in Magic
Schooled in Magic (Book I)
Lessons in Etiquette (Book II)
Study in Slaughter (Book III)
Work Experience (Book IV)
The School of Hard Knocks (Book V)
Love’s Labor’s Won (Book VI)
Trial By Fire (Book VII)
Wedding Hells (Book VIII)
Infinite Regress (Book IX)
Past Tense (Book X)
The Sergeant’s Apprentice (Book XI)
Fists of Justice (Book XII)
The Gordian Knot (Book XIII)
Graduation Day (Book XIV)
The Princess in the Tower (Book XV)
The Broken Throne (Book XVI)
Cursed (Book XVII)
Mirror Image (Book XVIII)
The Artful Apprentice (Book XIX)
The Decline and Fall of the Galactic Empire
Barbarians at the Gates (Book I)
The Shadow of Cincinnatus (Book II)
The Barbarian Bride (Book III)
HENCHMEN PRESS
First Strike
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Christopher G. Nuttall
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542019552
ISBN-10: 1542019559
Cover design by Mike Heath | Magnus Creative
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE I
PROLOGUE II
PROLOGUE III
CHAPTER ONE CALEDONIA
CHAPTER TWO CALEDONIA
CHAPTER THREE TYRE
CHAPTER FOUR TYRE
CHAPTER FIVE CALEDONIA
CHAPTER SIX TYRE
CHAPTER SEVEN CALEDONIA
CHAPTER EIGHT CALEDONIA
CHAPTER NINE CALEDONIA
CHAPTER TEN CALEDONIA
CHAPTER ELEVEN CALEDONIA
CHAPTER TWELVE TYRE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN IN TRANSIT, PERFUMA
CHAPTER FOURTEEN CALEDONIA
CHAPTER FIFTEEN PERFUMA
CHAPTER SIXTEEN PERFUMA
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN INTERSTELLAR SPACE, NEAR PERFUMA
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CALEDONIA
CHAPTER NINETEEN ROSEBUD
CHAPTER TWENTY ROSEBUD
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CALEDONIA
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CALEDONIA
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CALEDONIA
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR TYRE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE FOTHERINGAY
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX FOTHERINGAY
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN FOTHERINGAY
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CALEDONIA/INTERSTELLAR SPACE
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE QUIST
CHAPTER THIRTY CALEDONIA
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE FOTHERINGAY
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CALEDONIA
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CALEDONIA
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CALEDONIA
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE FOTHERINGAY
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX IN TRANSIT
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN WILLOW
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT TYRE
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE TYRE
CHAPTER FORTY TYRE
AFTERWORD
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE I
The interior of the space yacht was luxurious to a degree that even Lady Constance Turin, a distant relative of Duchess Turin, found staggering. No expense had been spared to ensure that interstellar travel was as comfortable as staying at home on the family estates. The cabins were huge, the food was delicious, and the companionship—composed of trusted family retainers—was excellent. She’d even been told that she could take a handful of travel companions with her, despite the secrecy of her mission. But she had the feeling that she was ultimately regarded as expendable. She was high-ranking enough to speak for her distant aunt, but too lowly for her missteps to rebound badly on the family. Her next voyage might be a far less comfortable flight into exile.
She poured herself a drink as the yacht dropped out of hyperspace a reasonably safe distance from Caledonia. It felt odd to be taking extreme care when approaching a world, but the starship’s captain had made it clear to her that there was a war on . . . as if he’d expected her not to understand the implications. Constance—Connie, to her friends—had to admit she hadn’t realized some things that should have been obvious. If the yacht came out of hyperspace too close to the planet, she might be blown away by the planetary defenses before they realized who she was . . . and, if they did realize who she was, they might blow her away deliberately. There were so many rumors about who was actually in charge on the planet below that it was hard to tell just what she should expect, from the king greeting her with open arms to the colonials arresting her and putting her on trial for crimes against the colony worlds. In hindsight, Connie rather thought her aunt should have made arrangements for Connie’s reception before ordering her to leave Tyre.
But that wasn’t an option, she reminded herself as she stood and posed in front of the mirror. They didn’t dare risk making contact with the king . . .
Her reflection looked back at her, her body and face almost painfully young. She was young, by aristocratic standards. A mere child of twenty-five, barely old enough to be taken seriously in a universe where the senior figures were rarely less than three or four times her age. And while they looked young too—human vanity was an unchanging constant even in a universe gone mad—they had an experienced glint in their eyes she knew she lacked. A year ago, she’d been spending her trust fund and sowing her wild oats before she matured and took her place in the family business. Now she was an ambassador on a deniable mission who could be disowned at a moment’s notice. She kicked herself, mentally, for not holding out for more solid rewards. Her aunt had put her out on a limb and was busily sawing off the branch behind her.
And the universe has gone crazy, she thought morbidly. Who expected an actual civil war to break out?
She shook her head. She’d never paid much attention to politics. The role of the colonials in the Commonwealth, the Theocratic War, and—most importantly—the balance of power between the king, the House of Lords, and the House of Commons had neve
r much interested her. They’d never really touched her. She’d had no real prospects of making something of herself, certainly not like Kat Falcone or some of the others who’d thrown their titles aside and plunged into the military. It still seemed insane to her. If you had so much, why throw it away?
Her aunt had been very clear during their one and only private meeting. Officially, as far as anyone knew outside the family itself, the family and the giant corporation it controlled were firmly on the government’s side. They were working as hard as they could to ensure a victory, to put the king firmly back in his box and slam the lid closed. But unofficially, they were hedging their bets. There was no guarantee the king would lose the war. If he won, if he got into a position where he could compel the government to surrender, it was vitally important that the family ended up on the right side. And that was the side that won.
“If the king wins,” Duchess Turin had said, “I will be in some trouble. But the family itself must be spared, even if I have to fall on my sword.”
Connie hadn’t understood, not then. But she thought she did now. The family was double-dealing, saying one thing to its allies while pledging covert loyalty to its enemies. The entire affair still staggered her every time she contemplated what she’d been sent to do. She’d be disowned if the king lost the war, the mission branded as nothing more than a crazy child’s desperate bid for power. No one would believe Duchess Turin, Connie was sure, but they’d all pretend to believe her. The Duchess had said as much herself, citing hints and tips that their family wasn’t the only one playing a double game. They had to emerge from the war on the winning side.
Her terminal bleeped. “Your Ladyship, we’ve received orders to await inspection before we enter orbit,” Captain Turin said. He was family—barely. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be trusted to command the yacht. “We can still turn and run if you wish, but we’re rapidly running out of time.”
Connie felt a hot flash of irritation mingled with grim understanding. Before the war, no one would have dared inspect an aristocratic yacht. Their IFF codes would have been enough to get them into orbit and heading down to the surface without even a cursory inspection. But now . . . She supposed she couldn’t blame them. The yacht was harmless, yet the locals had no way of knowing this. A modern warship could do a great deal of damage if it closed to point-blank range before opening fire, if it were camouflaged and no one realized it might be a threat. She sighed. She’d endured indignities, such as being snubbed by society hostesses, in the past. She could endure having her ship searched from top to bottom. At least the gesture meant they were taking her seriously.
“We can deal with it,” she said tiredly. “Make arrangements for me to meet the king as soon as possible.”
She let out a long breath as she picked up her datapad. Her aunt hadn’t given her any written instructions—that would have been far too incriminating, if they’d fallen into the wrong hands—but she knew what she had to do. Talk to the king, open lines of communication . . . without making promises that would come back to haunt the family when the war was over. And she knew it wouldn’t be easy. The king would want promises—cooperation—that she couldn’t offer, not without being immediately disowned. The family didn’t dare choose a side for good until they were sure the other side wouldn’t be able to destroy them.
“Because we don’t know who will win,” Duchess Turin had said when Connie asked why. “If we knew, we’d support the winner. Right now, all we can do is keep our options open and hope we can pick a side when we still have something to bargain with.”
A low quiver ran through the ship, the background hum of the drives fading away as the yacht waited to be boarded. Connie looked up, feeling oddly uneasy. She’d never had to contemplate the prospect of death before, death or disgrace. High Society was quite forgiving, if you had the right name and connections. But now . . .
If I fail, I will be disgraced, Connie thought. She had no illusions. Failure would mean permanent exclusion from the inner circles. I must not fail.
I will not fail.
And she waited.
PROLOGUE II
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Captain Sarah Henderson said as she poured herself a mug of coffee and took her seat at the table. “People will talk.”
“People will always talk,” Governor Rogan said. He smiled at her, the expression never touching his eyes. “We’ve gone to some trouble to ensure we can speak privately.”
Sarah nodded, taking the opportunity to look around the table. There were seven people in the room, counting herself, all movers and shakers within the Colonial Alliance. They came from seven different worlds, all colonies. None came from Tyre. She had the nasty feeling it boded ill for the future. The Colonial Alliance had sworn to support the king to the bitter end. Just by being here, by meeting behind his back, they were breaking their word.
And the king may already know, she thought grimly. Caledonia’s government was so close to the king it had practically ceded authority to him. The king’s security forces were growing larger, pervading the spaceport and the surrounding facilities like nits in hair. If he knows, what will he do?
Governor Rogan didn’t mince words. “You know what happened at Tarleton,” he said. “The king’s man arrested and imprisoned the entire government on charges of treason. If Admiral Falcone hadn’t intervened, they might well have been executed by now and the planet under permanent martial law.”
“The king was within his rights to be angry,” Ambassador Yang pointed out. She looked young, but Sarah knew she’d been an ambassador longer than Sarah had been alive. “The planet did surrender.”
“The planet had no choice,” Sarah said flatly. She was the only military officer at the table. She was the only one who could point out the truth and make them believe it. “The Tyrians had complete control of the high orbitals. Resistance would have been . . .”
“Futile?” Ambassador Guarani asked. “Or useless?”
“I was going to say impossible,” Sarah said. “They could not have so much as scratched the paint on the warships while the Tyrians reduced the planet’s surface to radioactive cinders. There comes a point, sir, when further resistance is pointless.”
“That wasn’t the attitude we had when we fought the god-botherers,” Guarani snapped. “We fought to the bitter end!”
“If a planet surrendered to the Theocrats, the people knew what to expect.” Sarah met his eyes, evenly. “The planet would be forcibly reshaped. Planetary leaders would be executed, military and police personnel would be put to hard labor, women would be forced into the home, and children would be raised in their poisonous religion. The Theocrats wouldn’t honor whatever terms they offered the planet in order to induce the locals to surrender. Once we knew that, we didn’t surrender.
“Tyre is different. This war has been marked with a notable lack of atrocities. There was no mass roundup of traitors on Tarleton, let alone any of the other worlds and settlements they’ve occupied over the last six months. The Tyrians have been clever enough to ensure that we can surrender without baring our necks for the executioner’s blade. They’ve made it clear they intend to be decent, and so far they’ve honored their word. I cannot blame the local government for surrendering when they had a flat choice between a reasonably harmless occupation and complete destruction.”
“It wouldn’t have been harmless,” Yang pointed out. “The House of Lords has made it clear that they intend to recoup their investments, somehow.”
“Somehow,” Guarani repeated. He laughed, harshly. “I wonder what they have in mind. The money to repay them simply doesn’t exist. And if they levy heavy taxes, they’re going to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“More like iron eggs,” Yang said. “And there are cheaper, easier, and safer ways to get iron.”
Sarah looked from one to the other, keeping her thoughts to herself. Guarani had a point. The Colonial Alliance wasn’t that rich. The concept of careful devel
opment had been tossed out the airlock when the Theocratic War had begun, destroying all the plans for the colonial worlds to repay Tyre for its massive investment. Sure, they could recover all the industrial plants and productive nodes they’d built over the last ten years, but it would cost them more than it was worth to transport everything back to Tyre. And, at the same time, they’d destroy a sizable market for their goods. Her lips twitched, humorlessly. No one would be buying anything from Tyre if they didn’t have money to buy it with.
“We’re getting off topic,” Governor Rogan said. “Can we trust the king?”
The words echoed in the chamber. Sarah shivered despite the warm air. She’d sworn an oath to the king when she’d donned her uniform; she’d betrayed her then commanding officer to take control of her ship when the king and his former government had finally come to blows. She knew she would be executed for mutiny if she fell into enemy hands. And yet . . . she felt uncomfortable, as if she were betraying a second master.
“He shouldn’t have passed judgment on Tarleton so quickly,” Guarani said flatly. “But—”
“It isn’t the first time he’s acted without our agreement.” Yang cut him off, her expression grim. “Right now, he’s running the war like an autocrat.”
“He may not have a choice,” Sarah said. “There’s no time to debate when the missiles are flying.”
“That’s not in doubt,” Governor Rogan said. “But the missiles aren’t flying.”
“Yet.” Sarah hadn’t seen any tactical or strategic projections, but she was no fool. The House of Lords had to be planning an offensive against Caledonia itself in the hopes of capturing the king and his loyalists in a single blow. It wouldn’t be long before they amassed the power to launch a major offensive. “If we don’t hang together, we’ll hang separately.”
“And what will we do,” Governor Rogan asked, “if the king doesn’t keep his promises after the war?”
Sarah looked down at her hands. She had no answer.
“So . . . what do we do?” Yang smiled, humorlessly. “Which of us will volunteer to bell the cat?”
“There’s already discontent on the streets,” Governor Rogan said. “It’s only going to get worse as news of Tarleton spreads from one end of the Alliance to the other. The StarCom network will make sure of it.”
Debt of War (The Embers of War) Page 1