She felt a flicker of pity for the midlevel managers, caught between the guns and the will of their superiors, then shrugged. Duke Rudbek was a tight-fisted bastard, if rumor was to be believed, but he wasn’t stupid. Very few of the high-ranking aristocrats were stupid, although they were self-interested. She didn’t think he’d punish his people for surrendering when surrender was the only viable option. They’d turn on him if he did. Hadrian might find supporters in the oddest of places.
Or they’ll try to seek work somewhere else, she mused. It doesn’t really matter.
Kat studied the starchart for a moment, thinking hard. There was no way she could try to keep Perfuma, not now. The next offensive would kick her out, if it didn’t destroy her. She was tempted to head straight back to Caledonia but hated the thought of just leaving without taking advantage of being so close to Tyre. A fleet of superdreadnoughts in their backyard would concentrate their minds on her, rather than plotting war against Caledonia. And yet, where should she go?
She stroked her chin. There were several possible options for her next target, of varying levels of economic importance. The really big targets were too heavily defended for her to hit, not unless she was prepared to soak up immense damage herself as she pressed the offensive into the teeth of enemy fire. She couldn’t, not unless she wanted to shorten the war. There was only one real exception, and they’d know it as well as she did. Rosebud. It would make a suitable target, but . . . they’d know it would make a suitable target. They’d expect her. And even if they didn’t, they’d react fast once they knew where she was. That would bring their fleet after her as surely as . . .
Her lips curved into a smile. She could use that, if she was careful. And even if they refused to take the bait, she might just come out ahead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
INTERSTELLAR SPACE, NEAR PERFUMA
“You failed in your duty.”
William stood in the holochamber, hands clasped behind his back, and listened to Grand Admiral Rudbek’s rant. Behind him, Duke Rudbek and Duke Peter’s images stood and listened too. They looked slightly blurry, as if the StarCom link was too weak to sustain a proper image. William wondered if someone was quietly arranging a communications breakdown. There should be enough bandwidth, even here, to hold a real-time conversation.
“You allowed yourself to be tricked and driven back out of the system,” Grand Admiral Rudbek said. “And now you dare ask for reinforcements?”
William said nothing. It was a law of nature that shit rolled downhill. The duke had probably given Grand Admiral Rudbek a bollocking to end all bollockings, which the admiral was now passing down to his subordinate. William kept his face impassive, even though it was irritating to be lectured like a naughty boy. Grand Admiral Rudbek was, in many ways, more vulnerable than William himself. He had a great deal more to lose.
“You lost the engagement,” the Grand Admiral continued. “The king is laughing at us, even now! We look like fools!”
“I doubt it,” William said. Kat had probably sent word back to Caledonia immediately, but it was unlikely the king and his PR specialists had had time to turn a minor skirmish into the greatest naval victory in history. They’d need a few hours, at least, to come up with a narrative that sounded convincing. The House of Lords had plenty of time to devise a counternarrative of its own. “The king knows it was just a limited victory.”
“But we were still defeated,” Grand Admiral Rudbek snapped. “Why should we not relieve you of command for gross incompetence?”
William felt his temper flare. Accusations of everything from procolonial sentiment to outright treason he could ignore, but accusations of naked incompetence were something altogether different. He had to protect his reputation as an experienced naval officer, particularly if he wanted to remain in the service after the war. Asher Dales might not want him back if he resigned a second time . . .
“First, our intelligence stated that there was only one enemy superdreadnought squadron at Perfuma,” William said coolly. Kat had clearly played a shell game with her limited squadrons, ensuring that any watching eyes didn’t realize she’d taken three squadrons to Perfuma. “And second, I did request a third squadron of my own. If the post-battle analysis is accurate”—he picked a random datapad off his desk and held it up dramatically—“three superdreadnought squadrons on our side would have tipped the odds in our favor.”
“You don’t know that,” Grand Admiral Rudbek said. His voice was icy. William had shifted the charge of incompetence squarely onto his shoulders. “Your forces and hers”—he glanced at Duke Peter—“would have been evenly matched.”
“I think we would have had the edge,” William said. “Kat—Admiral Falcone—was careful to leave us a way out, a way to escape, rather than closing the range dramatically and seeking to utterly destroy us. I think she didn’t want to risk running out of ammunition in an engagement that would have ended very badly for her, if she actually did. She wanted to give us a bloody nose, not go for our throats.”
“Which she did,” Duke Peter observed neutrally. “Whatever the realities of the situation, the truth is that the defeat will make us look weak. Again.”
Public perception doesn’t matter, William thought, although he knew it wasn’t true. The colonials wouldn’t—couldn’t—desert the king as long as it seemed possible he’d claw a victory from the jaws of defeat. We’re still holding our own.
“Right now, my ships are rearming,” he said, putting the thought to one side. “Given a few hours, my crews will be rested and ready to return to Perfuma. This time we know what we face. We can engage Admiral Falcone in a long-range duel that will force her to either expend missiles she cannot afford to lose or retreat at once, surrendering the system without a fight. Either way, sir, we win.”
“Unless she has a fourth squadron lurking in cloak,” Grand Admiral Rudbek said. “We cannot risk another defeat.”
“Then we need to start discussing terms of surrender,” William said. “We will not win the war unless we take a few risks. Kat took a risk, and it paid off for her.”
“Yes.” Grand Admiral Rudbek glared at him. “And yet, you want reinforcements?”
“A third superdreadnought squadron would be very helpful,” William said. “If nothing else, it would show our commitment to Perfuma.”
Duke Rudbek nodded stiffly. “One will be dispatched,” he said. “And victory will be assured.”
Or you’ll be for the high jump, William finished. The duke shouldn’t be moving starships around the galaxy like pieces on his personal chessboard. Technically, he should have given orders to Grand Admiral Rudbek, who would forward them to the squadron’s CO . . . He dismissed the thought. The chain of command was already tangled beyond easy repair. Something they’d have to fix after the war. If we lose, it won’t matter.
“We’ll have equal numbers of ships and more ammunition,” William said. “We should have the edge.”
“And if there are more enemy superdreadnought squadrons orbiting Perfuma?” Grand Admiral Rudbek didn’t look convinced. “You might suffer a second defeat.”
“If there are, then Caledonia is dangerously exposed,” William pointed out. “I’m surprised she managed to get three superdreadnought squadrons assigned to her fleet. The king can hardly risk uncovering his capital, not when we could attack at any moment.”
“We could,” Duke Peter mused. “If we attacked Caledonia instead of Perfuma . . .”
“The king would see our ships leave and know what we had in mind,” William told him. “And Kat would have plenty of time to return to Caledonia to command the defense.”
Duke Peter nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Recover Perfuma as soon as possible.”
Grand Admiral Rudbek appeared to be irked. “And when you return home, we need to discuss further offensive measures,” he said. “We can’t keep reacting and reacting until we run out of ships. Or they run out of targets.”
“Yes, sir,” William said, r
esisting the urge to point out that plans for taking the offensive already existed. They were just waiting for the admiral and his political superiors to give them their blessing. “We can discuss that when I return home.”
“Come back with a victory or don’t come back at all,” Grand Admiral Rudbek said. “Good luck.”
The holographic images vanished. An icon popped up, informing William that the communications link had been terminated. William let out a long breath, wondering just how long it had been since Grand Admiral Rudbek had stood on the command deck of a starship. Years, at least. He’d served during the war, but William didn’t recall ever meeting him. It proved nothing, he supposed, yet . . . Grand Admiral Rudbek had clearly forgotten everything he’d known about dealing with subordinates, sounding more like a bad actor than a serving military officer.
And he is under a lot of pressure, William reminded himself. The shit he dumped on me is probably a tiny percentage of the shit that got dropped on him. He needed to look tough in front of his superior.
He keyed his terminal. “Commander Yagami, dispatch two destroyers to Perfuma to keep an eye on the enemy fleet,” he ordered. “Inform them that they are to send a burst signal through the StarCom—if it’s still in operation—if anything changes.”
“Aye, sir,” Yagami said.
“And order the crews to expedite the rearming,” William continued. “I want to return to Perfuma as soon as possible.”
“Aye, sir.”
William closed the connection, then brought up the starchart. The fleet was holding position a few light-months from Perfuma. They might as well be on the other side of the galaxy, as far as Kat’s sensors were concerned. She might reason, correctly, that William wouldn’t have run that far, but it wouldn’t matter. The entire fleet was nothing more than grains of sand drifting in the sea of stars. The odds of her finding them were so tiny that they were practically beyond calculation. She would know better than even to try.
Unless some unhelpful soul decides to spill the beans. If the king has agents on the fleet . . .
He shook his head. The fleet was in lockdown. No messages would be going back home, let alone elsewhere, until they won the battle or returned to Tyre. If the king had agents on his ship, they were impotent. They’d be keeping their heads down, waiting for a chance to do real harm or simply hoping their previous allegiance would go unnoticed. The king might have convinced most of the colonials that he hadn’t started the Theocratic War, but it would be harder for any of the loyalists to cling to the delusion. The evidence was on all the major news channels.
Which are owned by the big corporations, which are owned by the House of Lords. Not everyone takes everything they say for granted.
Not that it matters, his own thoughts answered him. There’s work to be done.
“We took a single hit, Captain,” Commander Remus said. “But it did considerable damage to Fusion Two.”
Sarah nodded as she took the datapad. She’d taken Merlin out of the line of battle as soon as the enemy fleet retreated, giving her crew time to assess and repair the damage. But it looked as if the damage couldn’t be repaired, not outside a major shipyard. The enemy had known precisely where to target her ship for maximum damage. A single laser warhead had sliced into her hull, blasted through the armor, and nearly destroyed a fusion core. The hell of it was that she knew she’d been lucky. If the hit had been elsewhere, the resulting explosion could have blown her ship to atoms.
“We can just jury-rig a replacement,” Mr. Soto said. “Can’t we?”
“No,” Sarah said shortly. She skimmed the report. “There’s no way we can jury-rig a fusion core. We’ll be lucky if we can dismantle and remove the wreckage without taking the ship into a shipyard.”
She looked at Commander Remus. “Order them to shut the remainder of the core down completely, then isolate it from the power grid. We’ll have to see if we can get a replacement when we go home.”
“They should have one in stock,” Commander Remus said. “It isn’t as if we have to worry about cutting through the armor.”
Sarah gave him a sharp look. They’d patched the gash in the hull as best as they could, but . . . She gritted her teeth in irritation. The gash was too big for her peace of mind—it would be one hell of a target if the enemy realized what they’d done—and yet too small for anything helpful. They’d have to widen the gash just to transport the remains of Fusion Two out of the ship and then install the replacement before they resealed the armor plating and returned to the line of battle. The process would have been a pain even during the last war, when there’d been no shortage of replacements and repair facilities. Now . . .
“You can start drawing up repair plans,” she said. “And hope we can get it done before we have to go back into battle.”
Mr. Soto looked puzzled. “I thought you could fly this ship with one fusion core.”
“You can, in theory,” Sarah acknowledged. “But you’d be in trouble if you lost more than one.”
She scowled as she skimmed the rest of the report. Thirty-seven dead, nineteen injured . . . three likely to die, unless they received urgent medical attention the moment they were pulled out of the stasis tubes. Sarah felt a pang of guilt for not knowing the dead crewmen, for not feeling anything when she scanned the list of dead, wounded, and missing names. She was their commanding officer. It was her duty to say something about them when the crew bid farewell to the dead. But what could she say?
The remainder of the fleet wasn’t in any better state, if scuttlebutt was to be trusted. The enemy had concentrated their fire on the superdreadnoughts, giving them a beating that had pushed even their point defense and armor to the limits. Admiral Falcone hadn’t lost a single superdreadnought, but four were heavily damaged and almost all were out of ammunition. Sarah knew she was short on ammunition too. Merlin most likely wouldn’t be rearmed, not when there were so many other ships that had shot themselves dry. One more victory like that would leave the fleet practically defenseless, unable to fight. If the enemy realized how few missiles remained, surely they’d move to attack . . .
Her wristcom bleeped. “Captain,” Lieutenant Honshu said. “We have our orders from the flag.”
“Good,” Sarah said. She resisted the urge to snap at him. “And what are our orders?”
A hint of embarrassment shaded the younger man’s tone. “We’re to escort the freighters to Caledonia, along with most of the fleet,” Lieutenant Honshu said. “And we’re to avoid engagement along the way.”
Good thinking, Sarah thought. The fleet was in no state for a second engagement. We have to get home and make repairs before the hammer comes down.
Mr. Soto frowned. “We’re not going to keep this world?”
“It’s pointless,” Sarah said. A dozen arguments rose to her lips. She focused on the simplest, the one that might make sense even to him. “When the enemy ships return, and they will, they’ll kick us out and recover the world anyway. We might as well leave on our terms.”
She keyed the wristcom. “Inform the flag that we’ll be ready,” she ordered. “I’ll be on the bridge shortly.”
“It still feels odd to just walk away,” Mr. Soto mused. “We could stay and fight . . .”
“And then we’d lose,” Sarah said flatly. She was too tired, too damn tired, to mind her words. “Our ships are damaged. We’re running out of supplies. And our crews need a rest before they plunge back into battle. Morale is low”—Partly because of you, her thoughts added silently—“even though we won the engagement. We cannot afford another victory on such terms.”
She turned away, not caring to meet his eyes a moment longer. “Commander, I’ll see you on the bridge,” she said. “If they realize we’re leaving, they’ll do something about it. I want to be ready.”
“Aye, Captain,” Remus said.
William braced himself as the superdreadnought squadrons plunged through the vortex and appeared, once again, in the Perfuma System. The reports from th
e pickets had been clear—the enemy fleet had packed up and departed en masse. He hadn’t been sure he believed it. Kat was smart enough to know that retreat was the only sensible move, yet it would have been out of character for her not to look for a way to hurt her foes. Still the display was blank. The enemy fleet appeared to have dropped into hyperspace and vanished.
Curious, he mused as the fleet launched probes in all directions. They appear to have departed, without even bothering to bombard the orbital facilities.
“Admiral,” Yagami said. He looked up, his face stoic. “The planetary governor would like to talk to you.”
I bet he would, William thought. But do I want to talk to him?
“Inform him that we can chat after the system is secure,” he ordered. The display kept updating, revealing a handful of asteroid settlements and powered-down interplanetary transports. There were no cloaked ships, as far as he could tell. “Right now, we have too many other problems.”
He frowned as more and more reports appeared in front of him. Perfuma II had been untouched, save for a single brief visit that had been aimed more at collecting intelligence and spreading propaganda than stealing supplies and looting the planet. He supposed it made a certain kind of sense: Perfuma I belonged to the Rudbeks, but Perfuma II was technically independent, although he was surprised that someone in desperate straits was prepared to leave the planet alone. Perhaps Hadrian was looking to the future or . . . perhaps Kat simply didn’t have the freighters to loot the planet. She might have made a virtue out of necessity.
“Admiral, the system is secure,” Yagami reported. “There’s no trace of the enemy fleet. They ran.”
“They left before we could return,” William corrected. It hadn’t been a glorious victory. It hadn’t really been a victory at all. The PR specialists could lie their heads off until their pants caught fire, but propaganda wouldn’t make any difference. Both sides would know the truth, no matter what spin they put on the story. “They didn’t make us fight for the system.”
Debt of War (The Embers of War) Page 17