Debt of War (The Embers of War)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “It isn’t good,” Sir Reginald said. “There are people around us who are looking for an excuse to dump His Majesty.”

  “They’re politicians,” Kat said. The level of venom in her voice surprised even her. It hadn’t been that long since politicians had been breaking promises right, left, and center, forcing her to abandon people they’d promised to protect. She had no doubt that, for once, Sir Reginald was right. There were people in the chamber who’d abandon the king in a heartbeat if they thought they’d come out ahead. Very much like home. “What do you expect?”

  Sir Reginald leaned closer, as if he thought she was flirting with him. “Can His Majesty count on your support?”

  Kat glared at him. He flinched. “I think His Majesty has no doubts about where my loyalties lie,” she snarled. “And constantly questioning them is not helpful.”

  She kept eye contact until he looked away, then turned back to survey the crowd. She didn’t really feel proud of herself for intimidating him . . . if, of course, she had intimidated him. Sir Reginald was utterly dependent on the king, unlike Kat and many of his other supporters. If push came to shove, Sir Reginald would be booted out the airlock to appease the king’s doubters. Scapegoat was probably part of his job description.

  The chamber was much less decorous than the House of Lords, she had to admit. There was no order, no patience . . . different factions bickered with their enemies, ignoring the elephant in the room. The king had had as little to do with the House of Worlds as possible, she’d heard; looking at the chaos, she understood why. The House of Worlds would have no future if it lost the war, if the king lost the war, and yet, it was bickering over obviously fake charges while its advantages, such as they were, slipped away. Kat had no doubt the House of Lords intended to take full advantage of the bombshell. They probably had a fleet inbound already.

  And even if we do disprove the charges leveled against the king, she mused, we’ll never get rid of the stink.

  A low rustle ran through the chamber as the king marched into the room, striding down the walkway and taking his place at the podium without looking either left or right. He looked impressive, Kat noted. He’d traded his usual suit for a simple colonial uniform, a single gold star at his breast. Someone had put a great deal of thought into his appearance, she decided. His dresser had mixed and matched from a dozen sources to ensure the king represented them all, rather than wearing something that belonged exclusively to Tyre or the Colonial Alliance. She wasn’t entirely sure that was a good idea. The House of Worlds was exclusive to the Colonial Alliance, for all intents and purposes. The boxes that should have represented Tyre had been reallocated long ago.

  Sir Reginald cleared his throat, nervously. “Will they listen to him?”

  Kat ignored the comment as the king reached the podium and waited for quiet. The giant complex had no noise-damping systems, nothing that could impose quiet. She wondered if that was deliberate or an oversight, the former suggesting, perhaps, that the colonials didn’t trust the systems. She didn’t really blame them. It was quite easy to mute criticism by simply making sure no one actually heard negative remarks. And no one would be entirely sure they weren’t alone in their doubts and fears.

  It felt like hours before the room stilled, before the king tapped his throatmike to turn the device on. The entire chamber seemed ready to commend or condemn the king.

  “I will not deny,” the king said calmly, “that I believed we, the Commonwealth, would eventually have to fight the Theocracy. The Theocracy was clearly an expansionist power steadily taking world after world as it advanced towards the Wall, Cadiz, and, beyond Cadiz, the Commonwealth itself. I believed—and I was right to believe—that the Commonwealth had to prepare for war. I pushed for everything from the development of newer and better weapons to the outright annexation of Cadiz to ensure that, when war came, we were ready to fight it.”

  He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Kat kept her expression under tight control. The annexation of Cadiz was a two-edged sword. The colonials would understand the need to make hard choices, sometimes, but they’d also be grimly aware that the same logic could be used to annex almost any world. There were colonies that had joined the Commonwealth because they believed, rightly or wrongly, that they’d never be allowed to remain outside the Commonwealth. Mentioning Cadiz might have been a tactical error, even if it had truly been the king’s brainstorm. Kat didn’t think that was true. There had been strong bipartisan support for the annexation.

  “I make no apologies,” Hadrian continued. “I pressed for everything because I believed there was no choice. And I was right! The Theocracy did attack. It did launch a full-scale invasion of the Commonwealth. Their forces killed millions of people and ruined the lives of millions more. The Theocracy even rendered an entire planet effectively uninhabitable! If I hadn’t taken a stance against them, where would we be now? Still fighting the war? Or worshipping their god of blood and slaughter?”

  His voice rose. “If you feel I did the wrong thing in planning for war, you are free to feel that way. And the reason you are free to feel that way is because we won the war! We fought for the principles of freedom and self-determination, of free speech and economic freedom and all the other things the Theocracy would have destroyed. I worked for your liberty. And I—we—won the war!

  “But a charge has been leveled against me, by the very same House of Lords that has fallen into enemy hands and become a burden on our people. They charge that I started the war, that I lured the Theocracy into launching an offensive that, they claim, could not possibly have led to our total defeat. They have collected a series of incidents and woven them into a grandiose conspiracy theory that credits me with coming up with a plan that worked so perfectly that not a single thing went wrong. They say I deliberately started the war.

  “And I ask you”—he grinned boyishly—“did I even need to bother?”

  Kat had to smile. She saw others smiling, heard chuckles echoing around the chamber. Beside her, Sir Reginald let out a breath.

  The king had carried the day. Probably.

  “I ask you,” the king repeated. “You know as well as I do that the Theocracy was an expansionist power. You know as well as I did that it was only a matter of time before the Theocracy did something we couldn’t ignore. There were dozens of incidents along the border before open war broke out. Tell me . . . why would I risk everything, from my crown to millions upon millions of lives, when I could rely on the Theocracy doing it for me? Why would I come up with a scheme so complex when it would happen anyway, with or without me? And why, I ask you, would I come up with a scheme that was almost bound to fail?”

  He shrugged expressively. “I’m sure your answers will make more sense than anything they come up with, eh?”

  There were more chuckles. Kat frowned, wondering if there was some truth to the story. Admiral Morrison’s patron had never been conclusively identified, although the smart money rested on Robert Cavendish, who’d vanished with Supreme. There had been quite a few news programs arguing the vanished liner had taken Robert Cavendish to a new life well away from the Commonwealth, before his family’s debts started to catch up with him. Kat shook her head slightly at the absurd thought. It was unlikely that anyone would risk fleeing on one of the most recognizable ships in the galaxy, one that every navy would be watching for when the news finally broke. Besides, what had happened to the other wealthy and famous passengers?

  And the king wouldn’t have found it so easy to hide his involvement, once Father started looking, she thought. The charges can’t be true.

  The king waited for quiet, then continued. “This is just a tedious and utterly unimaginative attempt to weaken the bonds holding us together,” he said. “It fails almost all of the tests one might hurl at it, starting with the simple fact that there are easier and safer ways to smear someone like myself. The House of Lords, long a hive of scum and villainy, has no conception of the world outside their hallowed halls. They ca
nnot imagine what it’s like to live without wealth and power and a social safety net. They hold you, and those who take your side, in abject contempt. This piece of utter . . . bullshit . . . is merely proof of how little they think of you. Of us!”

  Kat smiled again, despite herself. On Tyre, anyone who used a swear word in the House of Lords would be severely censured at the very least. The appearance of decency was more important than the reality. They’d expect the king to say bovine excrement.

  “They ask me to respond, as if they have the right to put me on trial. But how can I respond to a charge that cannot possibly be taken seriously? What will they do next? Accuse me of rigging the Miss Teen Tyre competition? Masterminding the Breakdown? Triggering the Breakaway Wars? Exterminating the dinosaurs? Once this level of absurdity is permitted, it knows no limits. I do not choose to pretend to take it seriously. I do not choose to pretend that they take it seriously. Instead, I roll my eyes”—he matched action to words—“and I promise them that, when I reclaim my own, I will make sure that those who lie about me face the consequences. This war started because they played petty power games instead of doing their fucking jobs. I will not let them get away with throwing hundreds of thousands of lives into the fire because they’d sooner fiddle with themselves!

  “There will be no response. And I ask you all to join me in shunning their lies, in telling them that we will not tolerate their lies. No more. I say to you, no more! We can no longer afford to deal with lies. We will fight for our rights and win. They would not have lied to us, not so blatantly, unless they felt we were on the verge of defeat.”

  He stepped back from the podium. Kat nodded, watching in approval as representatives from all over the Commonwealth rose to acclaim their ruler. Below her, the journalists got it all on video. There weren’t any live broadcasts—thus avoiding telling would-be assassins where to aim their missiles—but word would probably already be sneaking out. A few hours from now, Peter and the rest of the House of Lords would be watching the king’s defiance. She wondered, absently, what they’d make of his speech. They didn’t expect him to be immediately stripped of power and executed, did they? Not likely.

  But people will wonder, Kat thought as the clapping grew louder. Or . . . they may find it useful to believe it. Who knows?

  It had been a good speech, Governor Bertram Rogan admitted stiffly. The king’s presentation had just the right combination of careful planning and scripting, mingled with an attitude that suggested the whole thing had been delivered completely off the cuff. Indeed, the king and his staffers had responded very well to the challenge. Bertram wondered if they’d had a contingency plan for something like it all along. Hadrian had to know his enemies were ready to slander him in any way they could, hurling mud in the hope some of it would stick.

  He joined in the clapping and cheering, barely devoting any effort to it while he considered the possibilities. The king had a point, Bertram conceded; any plan to deliberately lure the Theocracy into war would be difficult, dangerous, and, worst of all, unnecessary. If one was sure war was inevitable, why waste time trying to start one? It would happen, sooner or later, without leaving damning evidence that would eventually overshadow one’s future career. Bertram was honest enough to admit that he would have understood the king’s point, if he’d really entrapped the Theocracy, but Tyrians wouldn’t have been so accepting. The war had barely touched them.

  Not that cold logic would have meant anything to the people who lost relatives to the war, he told himself. They’d have been mad as hell at the king.

  He put the thought aside as Hadrian left the chamber. He’d chosen not to stay and answer questions, something that was technically within his rights . . . Bertram wasn’t sure what to make of that. The king clearly had no intention of answering the charges—he refused to admit there was anything to the charges—but still, he should have answered questions. His avoidance suggested . . . What? A certain level of arrogance? A refusal to risk being questioned in public? The king still hadn’t managed to put a lid on the Tarleton affair. The problem would never be solved, unless . . .

  Bertram dismissed the thought as he surveyed the chamber. The king’s closest associates were already leaving, having cheered their fill. Bertram knew they were probably seeking more private reassurance, given the threat to their legal status . . . He dismissed the thought. They were fucked, unless the king won.

  He heard the door opening behind him and turned just in time to see Sir Reginald enter the box. Bertram felt a flicker of disgust mingled with contempt. The man was a bottom-licking crawler, one with nothing to recommend him beyond a truly disgusting level of obsequious sycophancy. Rumors already existed about precisely what Sir Reginald did for the king—nasty rumors. Bertram didn’t believe them, but . . . they stuck.

  “Governor,” Sir Reginald said. He bowed deeply. “His Majesty would be pleased to see you in the inner council chamber, twenty minutes from now.”

  “And he’d be somewhere else?” Bertram couldn’t resist the jab at Sir Reginald. “Or will he be waiting for me there?”

  “I believe he will be chairing the meeting,” Sir Reginald said stiffly. If he had a sense of humor, no one had ever seen it. His smiles were as false as the rest of him. “And he requires the presence of the entire inner council.”

  But not the inner-inner council, Bertram thought. He knew the king didn’t handle everything through the inner council. And there might even be an innermost council.

  He stood. “I’ll be there,” he said. He was a councilor, after all. “And I have many questions for His Majesty.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CALEDONIA

  “Before we start, there are two things I should make clear,” the king said. He sat at the head of the table, Princess Drusilla sitting beside him. “First, as I said earlier, the charges leveled against me are total nonsense. There will be no formal reply and no suggestion, now or ever, that we will cooperate with impeachment proceedings.”

  Because they’d never let you go afterwards, Kat mused. They’d be fools to just let you slip away if you attended in person.

  “Second, I made a mistake. Tarleton was a mistake. I overreacted to what I saw as betrayal and chose a representative who grossly exceeded his orders. I apologize for that without reservation, and I hope we can put it behind us.”

  “I’m sure we can,” Earl Antony said. The hawkish minister glowered at the colonial representatives. “There is, after all, a war on.”

  “We will be happy to put it behind us as long as the question of treason and betrayal is firmly laid to rest,” Governor Rogan said bluntly. “The planetary government had no choice. It did what it had to do. And I want that clearly understood before the next enemy fleet appears in our skies.”

  “Understood,” the king said. “Justiciar Montfort has been demoted and reassigned to somewhere harmless.”

  “I want him to stand trial,” Governor Rogan insisted. “The matter has to be laid to rest.”

  “We don’t have time,” the king said. “Let his demotion serve as punishment.”

  Kat frowned, wondering just what was really going on. There was no disputing that Justiciar Montfort had exceeded his authority and the bounds of common sense, but it was hard to know what he’d been thinking. Had he been trying to carry out orders or . . . or what? It could be a simple case of empire building or something more sinister. A trial would make sense, she thought, if only to establish the truth. But the proceedings could also prove hopelessly divisive.

  “Then it is to be clearly understood that he is not to wield authority again, ever,” Governor Rogan said. “Nothing less will suffice.”

  “Very well.” The king threw his servant under the shuttlecraft with practiced ease. “He’ll never serve in a position of power again.”

  Kat felt her frown deepen as she sensed the mood shifting around the table. On one hand, Justiciar Montfort really had stepped over the line. On the other, the casual demotion and dismissal of one of
the king’s loyal servants wouldn’t sit well with the others. Even the ones who wanted Justiciar Montfort put on trial and shot weren’t comfortable with summary justice. They might be the next person to be unceremoniously dismissed for becoming politically inconvenient. Hadrian’s councilors would be doing a lot of second-guessing over the next few weeks.

  The king cleared his throat. “It has become clear, unfortunately, that there are agitators on Caledonia and many other worlds. The House of Lords has no shortage of money to reward traitors prepared to raise the rabble against me, against us. The protest marches over the last few days and the riots on other worlds are clear proof of outside interference. We already have evidence pointing to influencers who took money from the House of Lords.”

  “And yet,” Governor Rogan said tartly, “it’s hard to tell how influential the influencers actually were.”

  Kat nodded. She’d read enough influencer reports to know they had a nasty habit of claiming they’d been decisive, even if there hadn’t been a solid link between the results, whatever they were, and the influencer campaign. They had a strong incentive to claim victory even if they’d had nothing to do with it just to keep the money flowing in their direction. Her father had been profoundly cynical about the whole issue. The vast number of credits expended on advertising and propaganda during the war might have been completely wasted.

  It wasn’t as if the colonials needed a reason to be pissed, after Tarleton, she thought coldly. They had all the incentive they needed after the justiciar exceeded his authority.