Debt of War (The Embers of War)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “Admiral,” the speaker said. A line of text identified him as First Councilor Palaver. “What are your terms?”

  “My terms are very simple,” William said. He’d heard of Palaver. He’d been one of the founders of the Colonial Alliance, back when it had been nothing more than another pressure group. The poor bastard had to be wondering if he was about to be arrested for treason. “You are to shut down your remaining planetary defense installations and order your troops to return home. You are to evacuate your orbital installations so they can be occupied for the duration of the conflict. My intelligence staffers will land and inspect your communications terminals and StarCom nodes for actionable intelligence. Beyond that . . .”

  He met Palaver’s eyes, willing him to understand. To believe. “Beyond that, your world will remain untouched. There will be no bombardments, no reparations, no retributions. Certain of your political leaders will be expected to retire from public life, but otherwise . . . there will be no punishment.”

  Palaver frowned. “And these demands come directly from the House of Lords?”

  “Yes,” William said. “They will be honored, as long as you do likewise.”

  “Fine.” Palaver made a dismissive gesture. “We accept your terms.”

  “Thank you,” William said. “My troops will board the installations in one hour.”

  He smiled, thinly, as Palaver’s face vanished from the display. The man didn’t believe the promise of no retributions, at least not when it came to the Colonial Alliance’s movers and shakers. Palaver had to expect the worst. There was no shortage of people on Tyre with excellent reason to demand his head, with or without his body attached. But Duke Peter had made it clear that they’d follow a policy of conciliation as long as the former rebels behaved themselves, which would hopefully make it harder for fire-eaters to demand they continue the war.

  “Keep the fleet in high orbit, ready to leave at a moment’s notice,” he ordered. “The marines can deploy when the deadline expires.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Yagami said. He frowned. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Granted.” William had a very good idea what Yagami was about to say. “What do you want to ask?”

  “You worked hard to avoid killing them,” Yagami said. “Those ships, the ones that fled, we’re going to see them again, firing missiles at us. Why did you let them go?”

  William took a moment to consider his answer. “You’re right. I did let them go. I could have destroyed their ships or forced them to surrender, but I let them go. Right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Yagami said carefully.

  “On one hand, those ships are largely worthless,” William said. “They’re not going to add anything to the king’s fleet unless they have a lot of them. They’ll certainly need to be rearmed before they can do anything more than soak up our firepower. Ideally, the king will waste missiles rearming them instead of giving the missiles to his superdreadnoughts. And if not . . .”

  He kept his eyes on the display. “On the other hand, there’s no point in slaughtering them. And yes, it would be slaughter. We’d be smashing them from well beyond their effective range. It would lead to more and more bad feeling on the planet below, making it harder for them to accept peace after the war. There’d be people wanting revenge and setting up insurgencies or terrorist campaigns. We don’t really want another Cadiz.”

  Yagami didn’t look convinced. “Sir . . . they hate us anyway.”

  “Yes, they do.” William nodded. There was no point in trying to dispute it. “But we can at least try to change their minds.”

  He frowned as he studied the display. “And as we’re not going to be staying here for long,” he added, “it’s probably in our interests to make sure they don’t see us as murdering bastards.”

  Kat dreamed.

  She hadn’t slept well in the nights since Scott had come to her. The mere thought of being watched by unfriendly eyes was enough to bother her, even though, as a naval officer, she had no expectations of privacy. Jenkins had been as slimy and unpleasant as ever during their brief talks, his attitude enough to convince Kat that he was watching her. The reports from the rest of the fleet suggested that the political commissioners had long since worn out their welcome. One unlucky commissioner had suffered a horrific accident in an airlock that no one believed had been remotely accidental. But, so far, the person behind the “accident” hadn’t been found.

  The dream was shadowy, a threat she couldn’t place, a deafening noise . . .

  She jolted awake, lying in a pool of her own sweat. The intercom was bleeping loudly, so loudly that she was half convinced the planet was under attack. She started upright, brushing her hair out of her face as she reached for the terminal. The screen lit up, revealing Kitty’s face. Kat was silently relieved the cabin was so dark. She probably looked as far from an admiral as it was possible to be.

  “Admiral,” Kitty said. “We just received word. Fotheringay is under attack by a major enemy fleet.”

  Kat rubbed her forehead. “How many ships?”

  “The last report stated over thirty superdreadnoughts,” Kitty said. “The planetary defenses don’t have top-of-the-line gear. I mean, they didn’t have it. I . . . those superdreadnoughts could be fakes. They didn’t fire missiles, just point defense.”

  “Curious.” Kat stood. “Have the records downloaded to the tactical department, then signal His Majesty. Tell him . . .”

  Kitty glanced at something off-screen. “He’s already calling you, Admiral,” she said quickly. “Should I put him through?”

  Kat grabbed for a robe and pulled it on. Her body ached, as if she hadn’t really slept at all. She turned on the lights as soon as she was decent, then nodded to Kitty. The king’s face appeared in the display a second later. He looked as if he’d been woken up too.

  I should have been told first, Kat thought crossly. Her fingers danced across the terminal, putting the fleet on alert. She’d need to muster at least three superdreadnought squadrons if she wanted to counterattack, unless . . . How many of those enemy superdreadnoughts are real?

  “Kat.” The king sounded wretched. “This offensive cannot go unanswered.”

  “I understand,” Kat said. “However, it could easily be a feint to draw us out of position.”

  The king stroked his unshaven chin. “They’ve got us, either way,” he said. “If we don’t respond, we look weak. If we do, we run the risk of them launching a massive attack on Caledonia.”

  “Yes.” Kat frowned. “We don’t know how many of those superdreadnoughts are actually real.”

  “You mean some of them could be nothing more than sensor ghosts?” The king met her eyes. “Are you sure?”

  Kat shook her head. “The analysts will have to see what they make of the records,” she said. Whoever was in command might be smart enough to play a shell game with his superdreadnoughts and decoys, the same sort of game she’d played herself. Getting it wrong could be catastrophic. “But they might not be entirely sure.”

  “They never are,” the king told her. He pursed his lips, thinking hard. “Very well. You will take your fleet to Fotheringay. If the enemy is weaker than we thought, you can give them the boot. Drive them back out of the system, then deal with any traitors . . .”

  “Not again,” Kat said flatly. She had no intention of going through that again. “We don’t need another Montfort.”

  The king’s eyes flashed fire, just for a second. “Very well,” he said. “Proceed as you see fit. And if you can’t boot them out, retreat at once. No point in trying to win an impossible battle.”

  “Understood, Your Majesty,” Kat said. William was at Fotheringay. He had to be. And that meant . . . what? A chance to meet, or yet another chance to kill each other? She didn’t need to look at the records to know Scott wasn’t in the system. “I won’t let you down.”

  “I know it,” the king said. “Hold the line, just long enough for us to get the new weapons into play. An
d then we can retake Tyre and win this war.”

  Kat took a long breath as the king’s face vanished. “Kitty, alert the fleet,” she ordered curtly. “We’ll depart in two hours.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Kitty said. If she had any doubts about an impossibly short departure time, she kept them to herself. “How many superdreadnoughts?”

  “Three squadrons, if they’ll let us,” Kat said. “And two if not.”

  “Aye, Admiral.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  FOTHERINGAY

  Fotheringay, Kat thought as the fleet flew through hyperspace, was an odd choice of target. It was too close to Caledonia for the planet to be attacked, occupied, and properly looted before reinforcements could arrive, yet too far away to give the enemy fleet a chance to attack Caledonia itself. Sure, they could launch themselves at Caledonia, but Kat would have plenty of time to send a warning and hurry back to join the defense. It would be the worst of all possible worlds for the attackers.

  She glared at the latest report from the analysts, wishing, again, that they could commit themselves. They weren’t sure how many of the enemy superdreadnoughts were real. None of the enemy ships had fired a major salvo, something that couldn’t be faked; the jury was still out, it seemed, on the question of if their point defense fire could be faked. The analysts were confident there were at least two enemy superdreadnought squadrons orbiting Fotheringay, unless they’d moved in the last few hours, but they weren’t sure if there were two more. Kat hoped the former and feared the latter. She’d be happy to meet the enemy on even terms, but four against two was a guaranteed disaster.

  Unless the new missiles really are good, she thought as the timer ticked down to zero. It will be interesting to test them before we stake everything on one last roll of the dice.

  She braced herself as the fleet opened vortexes and flew back into realspace. The display blinked and updated, four enemy superdreadnought squadrons taking shape near the planet. A handful of smaller ships orbited the planet itself, but the remainder were well clear . . . as if they wanted to flee at the first hint of trouble. Kat frowned, puzzled. They might be playing more shell games, if half the superdreadnoughts were nothing more than sensor ghosts, or they might be trying to lure her into an ambush. Her drives whined as they cycled back up, ready to yank the entire fleet back into hyperspace if they ran into something they couldn’t handle. Kat smiled, despite herself. If nothing else, the chance to test the new missiles could hardly be wasted.

  “Long-range sensors are picking up four enemy superdreadnought squadrons, plus sixty smaller ships,” Kitty warned. “It’s unclear if any or all of them are sensor ghosts.”

  “Launch probes,” Kat ordered. They were short of probes—they hadn’t been able to buy any from anyone—but there was no choice. “And then take us in on attack vector.”

  “Picking up a signal from the planet,” Lieutenant Hamilton called. “They’re saying the enemy occupation force is bugging out.”

  It can’t be a very big occupation force, Kat thought. They wouldn’t have landed thousands of troops unless they were confident they could hold the high orbitals.

  Her gaze shifted to the display. The enemy superdreadnoughts were coming to life, flowing into formation as they swept her ships with tactical sensors. They looked ready for a long-range engagement rather than preparing themselves to steer towards her and trying to close the range as much as possible. Her eyes narrowed as she felt a hint of cold satisfaction. They had to be bluffing. The opportunity to trap and destroy two of the king’s irreplaceable squadrons could hardly be ignored. If, of course, they had the power to take advantage of the opportunity . . .

  “The probe reports are inconclusive,” Kitty reported. “The superdreadnoughts look real, but they’re running away.”

  “Yes.” Kat studied the raw data for a long moment. It was odd. The superdreadnoughts looked real—they were certainly emitting sensor pulses that suggested they were real—but they weren’t acting real. They were like cats fleeing mice. They should have turned on her and taken advantage of their supremacy to crush her ships. “They might have scattered their squadrons . . .”

  She stroked her chin as the range continued to close. They could be trying to spread out their ships in the hope of adding real sensor pulses to a fleet of sensor ghosts, but that only weakened them. They had to know it too. Unless . . . She wondered if there had been four superdreadnought squadrons originally, but two had departed to parts unknown. The House of Lords wasn’t short on targets. They could cause a great deal of trouble if they rampaged around Caledonia without ever hitting the king’s capital itself. They could . . . so why weren’t they?

  “Admiral, we’ll be entering missile range in two minutes,” Kitty said. “Your orders?”

  “Lock missiles on target,” Kat ordered. “Fire when we enter standard range.”

  Her eyes narrowed as the range continued to fall. She would have preferred to hold her fire until the range closed still further, but she didn’t dare get into a close-range missile duel with four enemy squadrons. It was simply too risky. And yet, firing at extreme range would give the enemy plenty of time to prepare their point defense and give them insight into the new missiles too. They wouldn’t be that much of a surprise when the decisive engagement was fought and won. But . . . She shook her head. It couldn’t be helped. If those superdreadnoughts were real, she’d have to turn tail and run as soon as they revealed themselves.

  “Entering missiles range,” Kitty reported. “Admiral.”

  Kat nodded. “Fire.”

  I’m going to be fired for this. It wasn’t really a joke. William had been taught to be aggressive, and the chance to obliterate two enemy superdreadnought squadrons wasn’t one he was supposed to pass up. They’ll be expecting me to close the range and open fire.

  He shook his head as his fleet continued to head away from the planet, luring the enemy fleet into a pursuit course. He could see a dozen ways to lure them closer, to keep them fat and happy until they entered point-blank range and discovered, to their horror, that all four of his squadrons were real. But he didn’t want to blow them away, not when he needed to keep them guessing. The chance to meet Kat was merely the icing on the cake.

  If Scott makes it to the RV point in time, he reminded himself. There’d been no reply. There was no way, even, to know Scott had gotten the message. The king’s counterintelligence officers might have twigged to him, might have arrested him . . . William had no way of knowing what had happened until it was too late. He might already be on his way, or he might be dead.

  The display sparkled with red icons. The enemy superdreadnoughts had opened fire. William’s intelligence analysts had sworn blind the enemy was running out of missiles, that they were expending far more than they could hope to replace, but . . . it looked as if the analysts had forgotten to tell the enemy. If Kat was short of missiles, surely she would have sought to close the range as much as possible. She would have needed to ensure that all shots counted, despite the risk of running into a trap. William smiled as the missile vectors updated again and again. His point defense would stop most of them in their tracks.

  “Admiral,” Yagami said. “The missiles are nonstandard.”

  William looked up. “In what way?”

  “They’re close to Mark-VIII missiles, but not exact copies.” Yagami looked up from his console. “I’d say they were bootleg versions if there weren’t so many of them.”

  We thought the king was trading with foreign powers, William mused. I guess we’ve just found the proof.

  His mind raced. He knew his crews could handle Mark-VIII missiles. The enemy missiles, on the other hand, might be harder to predict. Their targeting systems might be better than expected, or worse; they might be armed with nukes or antimatter or some weapons system he’d never imagined until Kat hit him with it. No, that wasn’t too likely. He’d be astonished if anyone sold the king top-of-the-range weapons, no matter what they stood to gain. There wou
ld be too great a risk of the weapons falling into unfriendly hands. Hell, Hadrian himself might turn unfriendly. A man who’d plot to start a war and assassinate his closest allies would hardly hesitate to plot another war.

  “Stay the course,” he ordered quietly. They’d get some good data, although it would come at a price. “Let them close the range.”

  Yagami looked uncomfortable. William understood. They could—should—be returning fire. They could have given Kat a scare, even if she was smart enough to run rather than let him batter her ships to bits. But instead he was letting her get closer. There was nothing to be gained by opening fire, not now. Better to close the range.

  And we don’t want to keep the planet below. That makes it a little bit easier, doesn’t it?

  He cleared his throat. “Have the landing parties returned to their ships?”

  “Yes, sir,” Yagami said. “The locals made no attempt to impede them.”

  “Then tell them to depart now,” William ordered. “They can link up with us at the RV point.”

  “Aye, sir,” Yagami said.

  William nodded, watching coldly as the enemy missiles finally entered point defense range. His ships opened fire as one, the sheer weight of fire dispelling any illusions about sensor ghosts and ECM tricks. Kat knew, now, that his vessels were real. He wondered, idly, what she’d do as her tidal wave of missiles started to evaporate. The missiles, wherever they’d really come from, were good . . . but not that good. A handful made it through the point defense, only to expend themselves uselessly on sensor decoys, their targeting systems not up to scratch.

  But they were fired at extreme range, he reminded himself as a couple of enemy missiles made it through the web and threw themselves onto his ships. They didn’t have time to pick their targets carefully before their drives burned themselves out.