Debt of War (The Embers of War)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  And Kat is fighting for the king, he thought tersely. The only person who made a life for herself outside the family is fighting on the wrong bloody side.

  He sipped his coffee, controlling his irritation with an effort. He should have come to terms with it by now. God knew, he and Kat had been at loggerheads for most of her life. He wanted to go back in time and kick his younger self in the bum, telling him that he should be patient with his baby sister rather than regard her as a childish nuisance. And yet . . . He couldn’t overcome the sense that Kat had betrayed her heritage. There were plenty of other ways she could have rebelled without putting the family itself at risk. He put the mug aside, telling himself he was being stupid. Kat was a grown woman. She’d made her choice.

  But she didn’t have all the facts, he thought, again and again. She didn’t know what she was doing.

  “I hope your brother does come to the light,” he said shortly. “We’re prepared to welcome him.”

  “Scott spent most of his life battling against an unfair system,” William said. “He’s been fighting for so long, he cannot tell when he doesn’t have to fight.”

  Peter nodded. “It can’t have been easy, growing up there. Both of you rebelled, did you not?”

  “Perhaps we wouldn’t have rebelled if they’d accepted us,” William said slowly. “But that’s air out of the airlock now.”

  “True.” Peter changed the subject. “Is the fleet ready for deployment?”

  “We could give Caledonia a very hard time now,” William said. “But the Grand Admiral doesn’t want to take the risk.”

  “Losing Home Fleet would make life difficult for us,” Peter said dryly. “I don’t like the rumors from the border.”

  “Me neither,” William said. “Do you think the king will sell them out?”

  “I think he’s considering it, if intelligence is to be believed,” Peter said. “Of course, he could be just stringing the Marseillans along . . .”

  “Perhaps.” William didn’t sound convinced. “And if they do gain possession of the border worlds, they’ll be thirty or so light-years closer to Tyre.”

  Peter nodded, stiffly. In one sense, it wouldn’t matter. The border wasn’t a physical barrier. The Marseillans could send a fleet from Marseilles to Tyre and, as long as they were careful, remain undetected until they emerged at their destination. But, in another, it was quite serious. Narrowing the gap between Marseilles and Tyre would give them a chance to pre-position a fleet within striking range in the short term, while allowing them to absorb the border worlds would enhance their population and, in the long term, their industrial base. It couldn’t fail to affect the balance of power. And who knew what would happen then?

  We might face a foe tougher and smarter than the Theocracy, Peter thought. In theory, there was no reason for Marseilles and Tyre to go to war. In practice, it was impossible to be sure. Wars had started by accident before, triggered by an incident that sparked off a series of responses and retaliations until neither side could back down without weakening itself. Or face demands for more concessions further down the line.

  “If we fought them,” he mused, “could we win?”

  “Their fleet is supposed to be smaller, and less advanced,” William said. “Of course, they’ll have been working on their own weapons ever since they saw us deploy newer and better weapons systems in combat. I’d be surprised if they haven’t already matched us, when we faced the Theocracy. There’s no way to know until we see their ships in battle.”

  He waved at the holographic starchart. “The Theocracy based its tactics around smashing enemies and grabbing their territory in a series of single-engagement wars,” he added. “They weren’t prepared for a multistar enemy when they realized they’d have to fight us, sooner or later. They never really laid the groundwork for supporting their fleet. We can’t count on the Marseillans making the same mistake. I’d be astonished if they haven’t been studying the war. We’ve been studying the war.”

  Peter frowned. “You don’t sound pleased about it.”

  “It’s easier to learn from defeat than victory,” William explained. “If you’re defeated, you cannot hide behind victory. You cannot allow yourself to believe that you won because you deserved to win, let alone that victory is the natural state of affairs for you. Right now there are people arguing that our victory was practically certain. They don’t bother to look at the factors that let us win because, hey, our victory was assured. And that’s dangerous because victory is never assured. Overconfidence is just as much a weakness as fanaticism.”

  “The Theocracy did have an unbroken string of victories until Cadiz,” Peter mused.

  “Yes,” William said. “And they never stopped to ask why those victories were so easy.”

  “Point,” Peter conceded. “As you can see, we cannot risk lunging at Caledonia. Not yet. Even if we win, we might lose.”

  “If the Marseillans stab us in the back,” William conceded. “Are they likely to try?”

  “We have to assume the worst,” Peter said, after a moment. “And they do have good reason to want us weakened, or gone.”

  “It seems to me we should be able to come to some kind of agreement,” William mused. “What do they want?”

  “They wouldn’t accept anything we could reasonably offer,” Peter said. “And that’s the hell of it.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters, right now. I had a meeting only an hour or so ago.”

  “Interesting,” William said, when Peter had finished outlining the meeting. “Do you think they’ll drop out of the war?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter said. “What do you think?”

  “I think they’d drop out if they thought they could do it safely,” William said. “But it would be difficult.”

  “Quite,” Peter said. “The sooner we win, the better.”

  William laughed. “We could win now if we took a risk,” he said. “But it could end badly.”

  “So you’ve said,” Peter reminded him. “When do you think you can move without a major risk?”

  “Several months, at least,” William said. “But we can keep putting pressure on them.”

  “And hope they fragment under the strain,” Peter said. “Unless we fragment first.”

  William looked alarmed. “Is that likely?”

  “It’s unclear,” Peter admitted. “It depends on factors beyond our control. The economy is weaker than we’d like, right now. Even conceding that we’re never going to see those loans and investments again hurts us, if only because we have to basically pay ourselves. And that will hurt the taxpayers, when it gets out. They’ll be unhappy if they’re forced to subsidize the corporations.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “And the king wants to come back,” he added. “I wonder if he’d want to stay away, instead, if he knew what sort of mess he was going to inherit.”

  “He’d come,” William said flatly, a hint of hatred in his tone. “A person like that never sees the downside, never really understands the risks. And when it catches up with them, the consequences take down everyone else as well.”

  “And they say I’m lucky,” Peter said.

  “You are lucky,” William pointed out. “Do you know how many people on Tyre, just Tyre, would trade places with you?”

  “Not with me,” Peter corrected. “With my family. With the ones who do nothing but fritter away their trust funds. If they knew how much weight rested on my shoulders . . .”

  He shook his head. “They wouldn’t want it at all,” he said. “And I couldn’t blame them.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IN TRANSIT, PERFUMA

  Kat had hoped to spend the voyage gathering herself, resting, and considering the future. There was a war on, after all, and it was her duty to figure out how to fight it. But there had been too many problems aboard her ships for her to relax. The commissioners had rapidly made themselves more hated than anyone else, even by the Tyrians. They’d suffered all kinds of little discomfor
ts, from “accidentally” having their life support reconfigured so it produced irritating noises to nearly putting their lives in very real danger. One commissioner had practically walked out an airlock, his hide only saved by his mystery assailant getting cold feet midway through the deed. Kat found it hard to be angry, even though she knew she couldn’t tolerate someone trying to murder the commissioners. It didn’t help that the commissioners seemed to like finding new ways to be annoying.

  “Admiral,” Kitty said. “We have reached the RV point.”

  Kat studied the display. The fleet rested in hyperspace, a single light-year from Perfuma. They should be well out of detection range, although she’d been careful to make sure they kept a wary eye out for pickets and freighters that might—might—catch a sniff of their presence. Logically, any passing freighter should assume that the fleet was nothing more than a cluster of sensor ghosts, but it was impossible to be sure. A picket ship watching for possible intruders would sound the alert first and ask questions later.

  “Order Merlin to detach herself from the fleet and survey the target system,” Kat said quietly. She would have preferred to go herself, but the superdreadnought was far too noticeable. “And then to return as quickly as possible.”

  “Aye, Admiral.”

  Kat sat back in her chair, feeling the familiar tension before an engagement. Merlin should be able to get in and out without being intercepted, although the enemy could realize they were being watched and sound the alarm. It shouldn’t matter, unless the defenses had been radically strengthened in the last two weeks. After all, the grand admiral was a Rudbek. He’d be expected to pull strings to defend his family’s interests. She’d be more surprised if he hadn’t done everything in his power to make sure his family didn’t lose the war.

  “Merlin has left the fleet, Admiral,” Kitty reported.

  “Hold us here,” Kat ordered. “We’ll wait.”

  She checked the tactical plan one final time. Ideally, the defenders would only see one superdreadnought squadron. If the House of Lords reacted as she hoped, they might not realize there were two more lurking in hyperspace. Even if they didn’t . . . they’d still have to make some hard choices. She smiled at herself. The plan had seemed perfect—almost impossible to screw up—when she’d been safely on Caledonia. Now, it seemed a little less perfect.

  “They should be back in an hour,” she mused. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if Merlin didn’t make it back. The heavy cruiser might have suffered an accident or . . . might have run into something big and powerful enough to eat her. There really was no way to know. In theory, Merlin could run from anything she couldn’t fight. In practice, she might get very unlucky. Coming out of hyperspace within point-blank range of a superdreadnought would be very unlucky—and fatal—indeed. “And then we’ll know.”

  She closed her eyes for a long moment, gathering herself. “It won’t be long now.”

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Honshu said. “We’ll be leaving hyperspace in five minutes.”

  Sarah nodded, watching as the countdown ticked mercilessly towards zero. It felt good to be going into action after the travails of the voyage, even though she knew there was a significant chance they might wind up dead in the next few minutes. She would have preferred to leave hyperspace a great deal sooner, but that would have ensured they were unable to convince the defenders they were friendly. Sarah hadn’t liked the idea when it had been explained to her, although she understood the logic. The whole strategy struck her as more than a little underhanded.

  She resisted the urge to glance at Mr. Soto—Commissioner Soto—as the last few seconds ticked away. The commissioner looked as if he made combat jumps every day, although Sarah was fairly sure that wasn’t true. She’d spent a lot of time teasing her way through the files, trying to find something on the commissioner’s past, but had drawn a blank. He seemed to have appeared from nowhere. She rather suspected there was more truth in that than she cared to admit.

  “Vortex opening now,” Lieutenant Honshu reported.

  Merlin shuddered as she slid back into realspace, her sensors scanning for any potential threats. The display updated rapidly, showing Perfuma I and its cluster of orbital habitats and industrial nodes in close proximity. A handful of starships moved near the planet, traveling between the rocky world and the distant gas giant. Perfuma II, in the distance, looked rather less inhabited. Sarah reminded herself that it was an illusion. They were just too far from the secondary world for real-time sensor data.

  “Transmit our modified IFF, then request permission to use the StarCom,” she ordered. The fake IFF should work, according to the hackers, but she had her doubts. Her ship’s characteristics were on file back on Tyre. They wouldn’t be able to keep up the pretense if someone thought to check sensor readings against the file. “And keep us ready to jump out if they come after us.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Honshu said.

  Sarah nodded, watching as the display continued to fill with data. Perfuma was heavily defended, as she’d known all along, but the House of Lords appeared to have withdrawn most of the mobile units it had assigned to the system. They were possibly under cloak, she supposed, but that made no sense. The enemy would prefer to intimidate attackers rather than risk a battle that could go either way. Her stomach twitched at the thought. Perfuma was immaterial, in the grander scheme of things. But Admiral Falcone’s fleet was not. If the enemy knew Admiral Falcone’s fleet was coming, they might have baited a trap.

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Yu said. “I’m picking up a demand for real-time conversation.”

  “They know,” Commander Remus said.

  “They guess,” Sarah corrected, although it didn’t matter. The planetary defenses wouldn’t have asked for real-time conversation unless whoever was in command already smelled a rat. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the enemy defenses starting to come online, limited only by the desire not to cause a panic. The enemy commander had messed up. If he’d tried to lure her into point-blank range, he might have succeeded. “I think it’s time to take our leave.”

  She smiled as a flight of gunboats appeared, charging towards her ship. “Helm, take us out of here,” she commanded. “Back to the fleet.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Lieutenant Honshu said.

  “You don’t want to engage them?” Mr. Soto glanced at her. “They’re just gunboats?”

  “Our orders are clear,” Sarah reminded him tartly. She couldn’t remember anyone questioning Captain Saul on his bridge. The old man would have thrown them in the brig so hard they’d probably smash their way through the bulkhead. “We’re not here to pick a fight.”

  She felt the vortex generator cycle up as the gunboats swooped closer, their tactical sensors locking on to Merlin’s hull. Too little, too late. Sarah wondered, absently, if the pilots would be in trouble when they returned home. They hadn’t had a chance of getting into firing range, and they would have had to throw themselves into her point defense if they wanted to really hurt her, but their superiors might not realize it. Perfuma was a Rudbek world. They might not have an experienced naval officer in command.

  Which would be foolish, she thought, as her ship slipped back into hyperspace and headed for the fleet. They must have plenty of officers under their command.

  She dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was alerting the admiral, then joining the offensive. The alert would already be racing to Tyre. It just wouldn’t get there in time to matter. Or so she hoped.

  And if the alert doesn’t get there at all, she told herself, the remainder of the plan will be worse than useless.

  “They’ve drawn down the mobile element, Admiral,” Kitty observed. “Where did they send it?”

  “Somewhere else?” Kat shook her head. The long-range sensor records showed no warships within the system, save for the handful of ships defending Perfuma I and II—more than enough ships to convince pirates to go elsewhere, but nowhere near enough to deter a superdreadnough
t squadron. “Order the fleet to advance, as planned. We’ll come out of hyperspace at Point Alpha.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Kitty said.

  Kat studied the display, turning the raw results and the hasty reports from the analysts over and over in her head. Perfuma was supposed to be heavily defended. She was surprised the Rudbek Corporation hadn’t protested, loudly, when their mobile defenses had been drawn down. Grand Admiral Rudbek should have been able to block it. Perhaps they’d realized that losing Perfuma would be irritating but losing Tyre would be an utter disaster. Or perhaps they’d assumed the fixed defenses would be enough to deter attack. Under other circumstances, they might have been right.

  “We’ll be out of hyperspace in five minutes, Admiral,” Kitty said. “Do you want to address the fleet?”

  “No,” Kat said. Her crews knew what they had to do. They wouldn’t be impressed by grandiose speeches, not now. She promised herself, silently, that she’d find a way to convince the king to withdraw the commissioners, or at least make them behave themselves. Her crewmen didn’t deserve to be regarded as potential traitors. They’d had a chance to go back to Tyre, or withdraw from the war, and had chosen to stay and fight for Hadrian. “Take us out as planned.”

  She braced herself as the vortexes opened, allowing her fleet to steer its way back into realspace on a direct course towards Perfuma I. The planetary defenses were coming to life, hundreds of gunboats flying towards the ships as they hastily formed a line of battle between Kat’s squadron and the planet itself. Kat groaned in disgust as the enemy ships prepared to make their stand. They had nothing larger than a heavy cruiser. They should either fall back on the planet, combining their point defense with the orbital defenses, or open vortexes and retreat into hyperspace. It wasn’t as if she could have stopped them.