Debt of War (The Embers of War)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  The House of Lords will make sure of it when they realize what sort of propaganda tool has fallen into their laps, Sarah thought. They’ll go out of their way to make the news as harmful for the king as possible.

  “Yeah,” Guarani said. “Who’ll tell the king he needs to back down?”

  “There aren’t many of us who can,” Governor Rogan said. “We’re being frozen out of the innermost circles. His closest supporters are unlikely to go against him.”

  “Kat Falcone might,” Sarah said quietly.

  “She lost status when she lost the Battle of Tyre,” Guarani pointed out. “And the king’s already pissed at her.”

  “There’s another point,” Yang said. “If we talk to the king, and the king refuses to listen to us, what do we do? And, if we do something drastic, what will happen to us?”

  “The king is not all-powerful.” Governor Rogan indicated Sarah. “A sizable chunk of his military is composed of colonials.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said.

  “That’s not the point,” Yang said. “If we start disputing with the king, if matters start heading downhill rapidly, the House of Lords will take advantage of it. We could lose the war. And what will happen then?”

  Sarah winced. She had no answer. But she knew that others did.

  PROLOGUE III

  Ambassador Francis Villeneuve of Marseilles was finding little to impress him on his incognito tour of Caledonia. His experienced eyes noted the places where the colony world’s natural development had given way to rushed industrialization to fight the greatest war the galaxy had ever seen, followed by the planet’s hasty incorporation as the capital of a government-in-exile. Or semiexile, he supposed. His intelligence staff had made it clear that King Hadrian and his staffers were exchanging hundreds of messages with friends, supporters, and possible contacts on Tyre. For a war that both sides had pledged to fight to the last, there was an astonishing number of people making official, semiofficial, and blatantly unauthorized attempts to bring the two sides to the negotiation table. He supposed it wasn’t too surprising. There were hundreds—perhaps thousands—of families that found themselves torn in two by the war.

  Which gives them a chance of coming out on top no matter who wins, he thought as the aircar finally landed on the embassy’s roof. Or at least of making sure whoever winds up on the losing side gets nothing worse than a slap on the wrist.

  He kept his thoughts to himself as he clambered out of the aircar, exchanged salutes with the guard on duty, and stepped through the security field. There were so many intelligence and counterintelligence operations underway on Caledonia that he would have been surprised if he hadn’t been stung with a nanotech bug or two . . . dozen. Marseilles was bending the laws on interstellar relationships to a breaking point, although Tyre hadn’t bothered to do more than lodge a formal complaint. It was only a matter of time, Francis knew, before that changed. The legal fiction that allowed his government to establish an embassy on Caledonia wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, although that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was military power and the will to use it. If Tyre ever found out what his government was doing, they’d get very willful indeed.

  Another guard passed him a datapad. Francis glanced at it, noting that the security field had killed fourteen bugs. He had no way of knowing who’d stung him or why, although there was no shortage of suspects. One complication of a civil war was that both sides used the same equipment and technology, their forces interchangeable in a manner the galaxy hadn’t seen since the Breakdown. Francis shrugged, returned the datapad, and made his way down to the makeshift office. Admiral Giles Jacanas was waiting for him.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Jacanas said. “I trust the mission was successful?”

  “The king is running out of time to stall,” Francis said with heavy satisfaction. “He must decide, soon, if he wants to do more than flirt with us.”

  He sat down, mentally composing his report. In one sense, Marseilles didn’t care who came out ahead in the Commonwealth Civil War. The war wasn’t going to really alter the balance of power unless both sides took the gloves off and started slaughtering entire populations on a scale that would make the Theocrats blanch. But, in another way, it was important to keep the fighting going as long as possible. The Commonwealth had been a growing threat to Marseilles simply by blocking interstellar expansion away from the remnants of Earth even before it had fought and won a war with the Theocracy. In the short term, the war had been incredibly costly and destructive; in the long term, it had positioned Tyre to make a bid for galactic power. Marseilles had been relieved that Tyre had stopped the Theocracy but wasn’t blind to the threat Tyre represented. The combination of a powerful military, an experienced officer corps, and the need for a distraction from serious structural weaknesses might have pushed Tyre into considering a second war. Francis wasn’t so sure, but it wouldn’t be the first time a government had done something outsiders had considered insane even without the advantages of hindsight.

  “The king will have to give up the technical specifications soon if he wants to win,” he said dryly. A maid brought him coffee, bowed, and retreated as silently as she’d come. “Or he can stay here and wait for his enemies to come knocking.”

  “Time is not on his side,” Jacanas agreed. “The House of Lords will be ready for a decisive offensive within twelve months, if not less.”

  “And so we must time it carefully,” Francis said. He sipped his coffee. “And make sure he pays us while he can pay us.”

  He smiled coldly, then sobered. The Commonwealth had developed enough newer and better weapons technology to give it a decisive advantage if it went to war against a peer power. Marseilles was working desperately to catch up, as were all the other interstellar powers, but the Commonwealth had a window of opportunity. Francis and his superiors weren’t blind to the implications. The longer they took to catch up, the greater the chance of Tyre turning expansionist and punching Marseilles out before they could mount a reasonable defense. If they could get their hands on pieces of hardware to study, let alone the blueprints themselves, it would be a great deal easier to catch up.

  And put us in the position to contemplate some expansion for ourselves, he thought. Or even to gain unfettered access to unexplored stars.

  Marseilles was in an odd position, geopolitically speaking, hemmed in on all sides by other interstellar powers that could block its access to the rim of known space. Blockading hyperspace wasn’t easy, but it could be done.

  He sat back in his chair, schooling his thoughts into calm. There was no point in contemplating a future that might not come to pass, not when everything depended on a king who was under immense pressure. The poor bastard was caught between multiple factions, all of whom could be relied upon to react badly if the king seemed to be favoring their rivals. Perhaps it was no surprise that the king was already making mistakes. His friends and allies—his true friends and allies—were few and far between. Everyone else wanted something. And woe betide the one who failed to supply it.

  It doesn’t matter who wins, Francis told himself. As long as we get what we want out of the bargain, the king can win or lose and we still come out ahead.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CALEDONIA

  There had been a time, Kat Falcone recalled with a bitterness that surprised her, that King Hadrian would have welcomed her to his palace. There had been a time when he would have instantly dismissed petitioners when she arrived, doing whatever he had to do to make time to see her. There had even been a handful of times, when they’d been planning the final stages of the Theocratic War and, later, the occupation, when they’d even just kicked back and been nothing more than friends. Her lips quirked at the thought. They hadn’t been lovers. They’d been friends who’d wanted, who’d needed, nothing the other could supply. They’d been free to be themselves.

  She sat in the waiting room, tapping her fingers in impatience. The room was strikingly luxurious, designed to give an image
of limitless wealth and power, but there was nothing to do while waiting. Whoever had designed the chamber had set out to convey the impression that everyone who waited to be seen was nothing more than an insignificant petitioner, someone who didn’t matter. She’d seen the pattern before, back on Tyre. It had never impressed her. Anyone who had a reason to be in the waiting room, anyone who was important enough to see the king, wouldn’t be impressed. They’d probably even be aware of the manipulation, which wouldn’t amuse them in the slightest.

  And we’re wasting time, she thought, looking at the door on the far side of the room. She could walk through it and then . . . and then what? The king was in negotiations with someone. Her sudden appearance might make things worse if they thought she heralded bad news. She snorted, bitterly. In a sense, she did herald bad news. The war was still trapped in a stalemate. And the last engagement had been a tactical victory but a strategic defeat. We need to find a way to tip the balance in our favor.

  She rose and paced the room, wishing she’d thought to bring a book or an e-reader with her, something—anything—that could distract her from the war. She’d read the reports, both the official ones submitted to the makeshift Admiralty and the unofficial ones from a bewildering network of influencers, pollsters, and outright spies who reported to the king. There were people who blamed her for everything, from losing the Battle of Tyre to the recent engagement, insisting that she was secretly working for the House of Lords—an idea so absurd she honestly couldn’t wrap her head around it. If she’d wanted to betray the king, all she would have had to do was arrest him the moment he set foot on her starship. There would have been no need to fight a civil war when she could have ended it in a second.

  A mirror hung in the corner, glinting oddly as it caught the light. She stood in front of her reflection and studied herself. Blonde hair fell over a heart-shaped face, the hair really too long for military service. She’d cut it short when she’d joined the navy, even though she probably could have gotten away with bending the regulations that far. The navy made accommodations for people, provided their accommodations didn’t get in the way of military efficiency. And she was an aristocrat . . . She frowned as she noted how tired her blue eyes looked, how pale and drawn her face was. She looked tired—tired and beaten. She rubbed her eyes, wondering if the king’s PR specialists would recoil in horror the moment they saw her. She didn’t look like a great heroine. No doubt the pictures and videos would be carefully tweaked before they were released to an unsuspecting public. The laws against manipulating content, everything from smoothing out one’s skin to outright deepfakes, had been tossed aside long ago. She wondered, sourly, if anyone truly believed the lies. There were just too many independent news producers, scattered across the Commonwealth, for a largely fictional narrative to take root.

  Which might make crafting such a narrative possible, she thought grimly. If everyone thinks faking a story is impossible, they might not realize that it can be done.

  The door opened, revealing a dark-skinned man in a simple suit and tie. Kat turned to face him, noting how he stood. His hands were never far from his belt. A bodyguard, she thought. Probably someone with genuine military training. The king’s paranoia had only grown in the days and weeks since the Battle of Tyre, when it had sunk in that the war wasn’t going to end in a single vicious engagement. He’d recruited so many guards that wages were going up right across the planet. Plus, half the population seemed convinced it was only a matter of time before the planet was invaded and brutally put to the sword.

  “Admiral.” The bodyguard inclined his head, his eyes never leaving her. “His Majesty will see you now.”

  Kat nodded, allowing him to lead her through the door. The bodyguard’s act was good, although she could see the weaknesses. He always kept himself a certain distance from her, as if he feared she’d put a knife in his back. Kat rather suspected he didn’t really trust the guards on duty outside the palace, the ones who’d scanned her right down to the nanoscopic level before they’d allowed her to pass the first checkpoint. There was literally nowhere she could have concealed a weapon, not from that level of security. And yet, the bodyguard was paranoid. His master was probably the foremost target in the entire galaxy.

  She kept the thought to herself as the bodyguard showed her into the king’s private office. It was surprisingly comfortable compared to his more formal office or the council chamber where his closest advisers and supporters met. There were comfortable armchairs, welcoming sofas, and, to her dismay, a sizable drinks cabinet. She’d helped him to bed only a few short days ago after he’d drunk enough to challenge even his genetically enhanced biology. She was not pleased to see him pouring himself a rather large drink.

  “And thank all the gods that’s over,” the king said as he held up an empty glass. “Will you join me in a toast?”

  “No, if you don’t mind.” Kat kept her voice even, although she knew the king might mind a great deal. “I need to keep my wits about me.”

  “Always a good idea, in this place.” The king waved her to an armchair, then sat himself to face her. “Everyone has a plan to win, and everyone else doesn’t want to hear it.”

  He lifted his drink. “Cheers.”

  Kat frowned as he drained the glass. The king was as handsome as ever, the combination of genetic engineering and cosmetic sculpting gave him a mature look, with an angular face, short dark hair, and a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. But he also looked . . . sloppy, as if he’d been liquefied and practically poured into his outfit. He wore a simple black suit with a single golden rose pinned to his breast. Yet . . . it looked ill-fitting. Kat felt a flicker of concern mingled with a grim awareness that clothing was the least of their concerns. The war could still go either way.

  “I concluded preliminary a deal with Ambassador Villeneuve of Marseilles,” the king said. “If things go well, they’ll be filling the gaps in our roster and supplying everything we can’t make for ourselves.”

  “That’s rather a lot of things,” Kat said. She would be astonished if Marseilles sent actual starships to fight beside the king. The House of Lords might turn a blind eye to diplomatic missives, and even the establishment of an embassy, but they’d hardly ignore a foreign fleet defending Caledonia. It would be a de facto declaration of war. “What do they want in return?”

  “Nothing much.” The king reached for the bottle and poured himself another glass. “They want some minor border concessions, where the Commonwealth brushes against their territory, and access to detailed technical specifications for our latest weapons.”

  Kat’s eyes narrowed. “They want us to give them advanced weapons?”

  The king snorted, as if she’d said something stupid. “How else are they going to supply us with modern weapons?”

  “It will take them months, at the very least, to gear up their plants to put the latest missiles into mass production,” Kat said. She’d never taken any interest in the production side of things, but she knew the basics. Months was an optimistic estimate. “In that time, Your Highness, the war may be won or lost. They may never supply us with a single missile.”

  “They flatly refused to supply us with their missiles,” the king said. “They claimed it would be impossible for us to fire them from our ships.”

  Kat frowned, uneasily. There was a certain amount of truth in that, she supposed. Foreign missiles weren’t configured for Tyrian missile tubes. Their control links would have to be reprogrammed to allow their new owners to target and fire them. And yet, it was possible to overcome such problems. She’d had no trouble capturing enemy hardware during the Theocratic War and pointing the systems right back at them. But then, the Commonwealth and the Theocrats had already been at war. Marseilles probably didn’t want to risk pushing the House of Lords to the point where their provocations couldn’t be overlooked any longer. The king’s ships firing Marseillan missiles would be something they’d have to respond to. The Marseillans might as well have sent the
House of Lords a calling card attached to an insulting note.

  And that might draw some of the heat off us, she thought. But . . .

  She shook her head. Widening the war would be utterly disastrous, no matter who came out ahead. If Marseilles won a decisive victory, they might claim Tyre itself and then advance to swallow the remainder of the Commonwealth. The king would count for nothing if the throne was lost beyond all hope of recovery. And if the House of Lords recovered, they’d have all the proof they needed that the king was a tool of a foreign power. His reputation would never recover, whatever happened. He would certainly never be allowed to rule unchallenged, even in the colonies. The Colonial Alliance would be reluctant to swap one master for another.

  Which makes me wonder if they know what the king is doing, she mused. And what they’ll do if they find out they’re being kept in the dark?

  She put the thought into words. “How many people know about the negotiations?”

  “Here?” The king looked down at his glass. “Only four . . . five, counting you. We conducted the discussions under immense secrecy. No point in letting everyone know. It would only upset them.”

  “It would galvanize the House of Lords to throw caution to the wind and attack us here,” Kat warned. “And not all of your supporters would go along with trading information for missiles.”

  “They won’t have a choice.” The king corrected himself, sharply. “They don’t have a choice, do they? If we lose this war, we lose everything.”

  “Yeah.” Kat couldn’t disagree with that, even as she wondered at his methods. “But we also have to think about the future. We could win one war only to blunder straight into another.”

  “We’ll worry about that when it happens,” the king said. He put his glass aside, somewhat to her relief. “If we win the war, we can renegotiate terms with our suppliers. If we lose, they’re not going to get paid anyway. And anyone who finds out ahead of time will have to think about the future too.”