He let out a sigh. “Inform Tyre that we have reoccupied Perfuma,” he said, even though they hadn’t taken the system by force. He rather suspected the official statements would be a little more exciting. “And that the enemy fleet has escaped.”
“Aye, sir,” Yagami said. The display brightened as the fleet stood down from red alert. “Do you want to speak to the governor now?”
I suppose I should, William thought. He didn’t want to speak to the governor, but he didn’t have a choice. The man would probably complain if William kept fobbing him off. And I hope he won’t expect me to make a courtesy call.
“I’ll speak to him in my office,” he said, standing. “Give me a moment, then put him through.”
“Aye, sir.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CALEDONIA
Ambassador Francis Villeneuve looked around with interest as he was shown into the king’s private chambers. He’d visited the palace before, during his earlier discussions with Hadrian’s representatives, but it was the first time he’d been invited into the innermost sections and asked to make himself at home. He was too experienced an ambassador to take all he was seeing at face value—the king’s people would do everything in their power to project the impression they wanted to project—but he knew what to look for. The real story was all around him if he could tease it out.
He kept his face impassive as they walked past a pair of holographic displays, both showing images from the front. Mighty fleets were moving through space, clashing with a thunder to shake the stars themselves . . . Red arrows glided from system to system, showing known and projected enemy movements. Francis was fairly sure most of them were fictional, planned, or predicted offensives at best, but it was impossible to be sure. The Commonwealth was the first interstellar power to fight and win a full-scale war. To have two such wars in the space of five years struck him as careless, at the very least. But then, the results of the last war had laid the groundwork for the current conflict.
The king rose as Francis was escorted into his office, extending a hand in greeting. Francis shook it gravely, noting how the king had been carefully taught to comport himself in a manner befitting a senior politician. His handshake was firm but not too firm, perfectly crafted to say that he was strong, that he was greeting Francis as an equal, without putting Francis down in any way. It would have been impressive if Francis hadn’t known the trick. The king was good at presenting himself. Francis wondered, grimly, just how far that talent would actually go if the war went against him. There were already stresses and strains pervading the king’s coalition. Francis knew, even if Hadrian didn’t, that there were colonials looking for a way out before it was too late.
“You know my wife, of course,” the king said.
Francis nodded, bowing to Princess Drusilla. Queen Drusilla now, he supposed. She was beautiful, her exotic face strikingly different. It was meaningless, in a day and age where everything from skin and eye color to gender itself was mutable, but her features were still a reminder that Drusilla wasn’t from the Commonwealth. She’d escaped the Theocracy shortly before the war. Francis knew Drusilla wasn’t popular on Tyre. Xenophobia or something else, something more understandable? A person couldn’t grow up under a theocratic system without picking up a lot of bad habits.
“Charmed,” he said. It didn’t matter. He had his orders. “My congratulations on your recent victory.”
“I thank you.” The king looked and sounded as if he’d won the victory himself rather than remaining on Caledonia while Kat Falcone fought a battle on his behalf. “It is merely the first of many.”
“Quite.” Francis kept his opinion of that to himself. He had never claimed to be a military expert, but he was fairly sure that the Battle of Perfuma was little more than a minor skirmish in the grand scheme of things. The Battle of Cadiz had been fought on a much bigger scale, with much more at stake. “My government has considered your proposal.”
The king leaned forward, slightly. Very slightly. Francis frowned, inwardly. Was Hadrian betraying his eagerness or . . . or was he trying to give that impression? There was no way to be sure. The king had grown up in a snake pit, where the slightest mistake could have cost him his crown, trust fund, and political power. Perhaps that was why he’d married Drusilla. She’d grown up in a snake pit too. And they’d both been at risk of being married off to people they hadn’t chosen for themselves . . .
And yet, his people really don’t like her, Francis mused. There might be a better reason for that than simple bigotry.
He put the thought aside. It wasn’t his problem. “We are prepared to meet your demands for ammunition,” he said. “In exchange, we want two sets of concessions from you.”
The king’s face became a blank mask, although he had to know what Francis’s superiors wanted. He’d been following the negotiations very closely, even when he hadn’t been personally involved. Francis would have been astonished if the king didn’t know. The discussions had gone backwards and forwards for weeks, but the goalposts hadn’t moved more than a millimeter in either direction. And the time for talking was nearly over.
We have to secure the concessions before the king becomes strong enough to tell us to go to hell, he reminded himself, or weak enough that he can no longer give us what we want.
“First, we want the technical plans and specifications you promised us,” Francis said. They were less important than the king believed—knowing that something was possible was halfway to figuring out how to do it—but it might be better to keep the king thinking otherwise. He’d be more reassured if he thought the gap between the Commonwealth and its rivals was insurmountable, at least in the next few years. “We want them delivered to us within the next few days, so we can courier them to the border.”
The king nodded, curtly. Francis wondered just how much Hadrian actually knew. Did he realize his government was in serious trouble? Was he thinking so hard about the future that he was ignoring the present? Or was he simply rolling the dice, again and again, convinced that it was the only way to keep ahead of his enemies? Francis believed the story about the king planning the Theocratic War, deliberately giving his enemies a chance to launch a strike against the Commonwealth. The plan was insane, but very in-character for a man who didn’t think he could really lose.
Not that it matters, Francis thought. All that matters is that the king prolongs the war.
“Second, we want title to the nine border systems, as detailed in our last set of notes.” Francis removed a datachip from his pocket and placed it on the table. He didn’t think the king had lost the notes, but it was important to deprive him of a psychological buffer. “The systems are to be handed to us as soon as possible, once our ships are in position to take possession. They will become part of our sphere of influence from that moment.”
“You think they want you?” Drusilla leaned forward, her dark eyes alight with something Francis couldn’t place. “They’re Commonwealth worlds.”
Francis looked back at her evenly. “Does their opinion really matter?”
The king said nothing for a long moment. Francis wondered what was going through the mind behind his too-handsome face. He wasn’t a fool, for all that he’d started a war to keep the power he’d obtained by deception. He had to know that conceding the border worlds would risk another conflict, either a civil war within the Commonwealth or a later interstellar war with Marseilles. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t already have a civil war. But he had very little choice. The enemy had most of the cards. If he didn’t find a way to even the odds, he’d be in deep shit when their fleet came to Caledonia and took the remaining cards. He needed to sell out the border worlds to keep his cause alive.
“You will permit anyone who wants to leave to do so,” the king said finally. “And you will make sure they can do so.”
“Of course,” Francis said. Human capital was important, but not important enough to risk starting an insurgency by preventing people from leaving. Besides, it
wasn’t easy to force a rebellious population to do more than sullenly tolerate outside rule. The Theocracy had found itself fighting a constant series of small wars just to keep its early conquests under control. “We want the systems themselves. The population can leave, if they wish.”
He leaned back in his chair. The populace would be unhappy, but their opinions didn’t matter. Their worlds didn’t matter, not really. Marseilles wanted the systems and the resources within them, the gas giants and asteroid belts and rocky airless worlds. The inhabited worlds could be left alone, if the population refused to either leave or accept the new order. Who knew? A few decades of investment and they might become productive and loyal citizens. The Commonwealth hadn’t done enough to keep them loyal.
“And you will formally recognize me as ruler of the Commonwealth,” the king said. “That’s the only way the territory transfer can be considered legal.”
Francis schooled his face into immobility. “We cannot take that step, not yet,” he said. “While we would prefer to see you as the ruler, the blunt truth is that you do not rule the entire Commonwealth. We cannot avoid dealing with your enemies as long as they wield power. Nor can we deny them recognition. There’s nothing to be gained by pretending you wield complete authority when you don’t.”
The king looked displeased, a flicker of frustration glimmering through his mask. Francis didn’t blame him, but he knew the score. Countless diplomatic missions had been useless—worse than useless, all too often—because they’d talked to governments that didn’t wield any real power. It was frighteningly easy for someone who talked a good game to claim they were the one true government, a pretense that could suck in blood and treasure before the truth came out. Francis didn’t like dealing with unfriendly or unpleasant governments, but as long as they were the ones in charge and no one was prepared to remove them, there was no way to avoid it.
And there are worse governments out there, he reminded himself. The king was civilized enough, thankfully, not to harm ambassadors. The Theocracy hadn’t been so polite. You could have been assigned to that hellhole before the war.
“You will receive your plans by the end of the day,” the king said. “When can we expect our supplies?”
“In two weeks,” Francis assured him. “The convoy is already on its way.”
The king nodded stiffly. He’d probably hoped to get the supplies at once, but . . . the realities of interstellar shipping rendered such a feat impossible, even if Francis had been willing to oblige. It wouldn’t do to give the king a chance to renege on the deal. God knew the colonials wouldn’t be pleased when they heard what he’d done. Francis would have preferred to insist on occupying the border worlds at once, but . . . it wouldn’t do to accidentally blow the king’s coalition out of the water either. A civil war within the civil war would lead to certain defeat, once the House of Lords stopped laughing. And then there’d be no hope of securing the border worlds without triggering another full-scale conflict.
“I’ll formally surrender the border stars once the convoy arrives,” the king told him. “I trust that will be suitable?”
“Quite suitable.” Francis smiled thinly. “Our forces should be in position to take possession by then.”
He had to fight to keep his concern from showing on his face. In theory, the Commonwealth, no matter who won the civil war, should be in no position to recover the border stars. In practice, there was no way to be sure what they’d do. The House of Lords might swallow the loss, taking advantage of their victory to blame everything on the king, or they might go to war to recover them. And the king himself would come under immense pressure, if he won the war, to go back on his agreement. The treaty they were about to sign might just be the start of a chain of events that would lead, eventually, to mayhem.
“The formal treaty will be signed when the convoy arrives,” he said. This would give his government a chance to think better of it, particularly once the technical specifications were in their possession. “And then we’ll stake our claim.”
“Good,” the king said.
Francis felt a flash of pity, mingled with contempt and a sobering awareness that the king had little choice. He needed foreign aid, even if that aid came with a whole string of—his lips quirked at the wordplay—strings attached. And yet, the price he had to pay for that aid might result in his defeat. Francis told himself that it wasn’t his concern. The ultimate winner of the civil war wasn’t important, not to him. All that mattered was getting what they wanted while the king was strong enough to give it to them and weak enough not to take it back.
And securing our position before the House of Lords wins the war, if they do win, Francis thought. They’re smart enough not to start a war they might lose.
He stood. “Thank you for your time, Your Majesty,” he said. He nodded, politely, to the princess. “I’ll see you when the time comes to sign.”
“Of course,” the king said. “I look forward to it.”
Francis kept his thoughts to himself as Sir Reginald Grantham showed him back to the landing pad, where his aircar was waiting. Lord Snow, the king’s diplomat, hadn’t been that closely involved in the negotiations. Francis wondered if that was a sign Snow disapproved of the planned treaty, or a simple bid by Sir Reginald to increase his power and position within the king’s court. Francis had no doubt the king would destroy Sir Reginald in an instant if he failed to be as useful and accommodating as possible. Or if he needed a scapegoat. Lord Snow was too experienced a diplomat to leave his back bare to a superior who might need to put a knife in it at any moment.
Perhaps literally, he pondered as the aircar rose into the sky. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
He watched, dispassionately, as the streets below came into view. They were crowded with demonstrators, with pro- and anti-king mobs clashing violently despite the best efforts of policemen, security officers, and actual soldiers. Caledonia was under de facto martial law, according to the news broadcasts. Francis suspected that boded ill for Hadrian. The colonials were more used to hardship than his subjects, but they were also sensitive to assaults on their personal liberty. They’d fight to defend a person’s right to be himself, even if they disliked the thought of whatever he wanted to do. And the king had impinged upon their liberties by putting troops on the streets.
The aircar landed neatly on the embassy roof. Francis stood, bid farewell to the driver, and walked through the door and through a maze of corridors until he reached his office. Admiral Giles Jacanas was already there, waiting for him. He held a small datapad in one hand.
“Perfuma has fallen, again,” he said. “The official news broadcasts from Tyre claim that seventeen of the king’s superdreadnoughts were destroyed and a further nine badly damaged.”
Francis raised his eyebrows as he removed his jacket and passed it to his orderly. “Do you believe it?”
“I never believe anything I read in all the major news outlets,” Jacanas said. “But it does seem clear that Perfuma has fallen. They wouldn’t lie about something so easily checked.”
“True.” Francis poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down. “When did you get the word?”
“Thirty-odd minutes ago,” Jacanas said. “You didn’t want to be interrupted.”
“Interesting,” Francis said. “I wonder if the king knew, while he was talking to me.”
“He might have,” Jacanas said. He met Francis’s eyes. “Do we still want to involve ourselves in this . . . scrabble?”
“We don’t have a choice,” Francis said. “There won’t be a better chance to move the border dozens of light-years rimwards. You know as well as I do that we have to expand or die.”
“You know as well as I do that our space isn’t small,” Jacanas countered. “We’re not living on a single island with restricted living room. We’re not living on a single world. It will take centuries to burn through our resources . . .”
Francis smiled. “I thought you understood the importa
nce of moving the border closer to Tyre,” he said. “And of making sure the Commonwealth doesn’t become a serious threat.”
“I do,” Jacanas confirmed. “But it is also my duty to make sure you understand the implications. The military implications.”
“Yes.” Francis sipped his coffee. “Does losing Perfuma change things in any real sense?”
“Not unless the reports are accurate.” Jacanas picked up a datapad. “But given that the combined navies of both sides in this war have been wiped out several times over, as far as the news broadcasts are concerned, I wouldn’t put money on it.”
“Probably not,” Francis agreed. He waved his hand, dismissively. “It’s in our interests to keep the civil war going as long as possible, as you know. And to make sure we’re ready for the day when a winner finally emerges.”
“And to fight a war with him,” Jacanas said.
“Ideally, we won’t have to fight,” Francis said. “And if we look ready to fight, perhaps they’ll refrain from calling our bluff.”
“The king started a war with the Theocracy,” Jacanas pointed out. “If you believe the news broadcasts, of course. We haven’t been able to prove they’re fakes, Your Excellency, nor have the locals. And if it is true . . . how do you know the king won’t start a war with us?”
“I don’t,” Francis admitted. “But we don’t have any other options. We must meddle.”
He studied the chart for a long moment. “And if we do, and he does, we’ll be in a much better position to fight.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ROSEBUD
Manager Toni O’Brian knew little of the war and cared less.
The conflict didn’t touch her, not really. Oh, she knew Perfuma had been attacked, and Perfuma was only five light-years from Rosebud, but she had more important concerns. The giant cluster of cloudscoops under her command belonged to the Cavendish Corporation, which was, despite being bailed out by its former peers, hovering permanently on the verge of bankruptcy. She wanted—needed—to show what she could do, if only to ensure she stayed employed if the corporation passed its interests in the system to one of its rivals. The bastards would kick her out or demote her if they thought she couldn’t be useful.
Debt of War (The Embers of War) Page 18