Debt of War (The Embers of War)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  William touched her shoulder, lightly. “I’m sorry . . .”

  “Not your fault.” Kat felt tears in her eyes. She blinked them away angrily. No time for crying. Or anything. “I . . .”

  She wanted to believe he was lying, but . . . The weight of her sins crashed down on her, threatening to crush her. She was a traitor. She’d served the enemy. She’d . . . She wondered, morbidly, if she’d be hung, drawn, and quartered or simply hung. She felt an urge to run, combined with a sense she’d never get away. That . . . she shouldn’t get away. The mess she’d created wasn’t wholly her mess, but . . .No, it was her mess. And she had a responsibility to clear it up.

  “Fuck it.” She clenched her fists, but there was nothing to hit. “Just . . . fuck it.”

  She blinked, hard. She didn’t have time to collapse into a ball. She had to do something, anything, to fix the mess before things managed to get worse. And then . . . take whatever punishment was aimed at her. She’d do it, somehow. She’d cope. She’d . . .

  “Thank you for telling me,” she managed. Kat wished, suddenly, that she’d paid more attention to her mother’s lessons on deportment. She was able to deliver and receive bad news with equal detachment, even if the news was truly disastrous. “I . . .”

  She met his eyes. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” William said. “The House of Lords was . . . reluctant . . . to let me know their long-term plans.”

  Just in case I decided to keep you prisoner. She wasn’t sure that was true. William might not know, officially, but he was smart enough to make a few guesses. She dismissed the thought with a scowl. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to arrest him. She was . . . She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but she wasn’t going to do that. You have to go back while I figure out a way to clear up the mess.

  William passed her the datachips. “There’re copies of all the files here,” he said. “Be careful who you show them to.”

  “Of course,” Kat said. “I do have some experience at hiding incriminating datachips.”

  She laughed, humorlessly. She’d taken illicit datachips into the academy, like almost everyone else. This . . . this would be a great deal worse. Jenkins would blow a fuse, if he found out. She wondered what he’d do, if he knew the truth. Turn on the king or . . . or stay with him? Perhaps the latter. There was no shortage of clients who would prefer to change patrons but were too dependent on their current patrons to make the jump. The king had had plenty of patronage to distribute, once upon a time. And now there was no way anyone who’d fought for him could hope to find safe landing on the other side.

  “Be careful,” William warned. “Really.”

  “I will.” Kat felt an insane urge to giggle, mingled with an awareness that she didn’t have time. “William, I . . .”

  “I understand,” William said. “I need to return to my fleet now.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Kat said. She glared at the datachips. She’d go through them, of course, but . . . she knew William was telling the truth. And Peter . . . Her brother might be a pompous ass, but he wouldn’t lie about their father. Even he had standards. “And I’ll get in touch, when I can.”

  “Things are moving fast,” William said.

  “You probably shouldn’t have told me that,” Kat said, although she knew it wasn’t that helpful. She already knew the four superdreadnought squadrons under William’s command couldn’t be that far away. They probably had orders to shoot the hell out of her fleet, or Caledonia itself, if he didn’t make it home. “I’ll see you afterwards.”

  William frowned. “What are you going to tell them? I mean . . .”

  Kat grimaced, then raised her palm to her mouth and kissed it repeatedly. It would smudge her lipstick, just a little. She’d heard the rumors. Let Jenkins think she and Scott were in a relationship. Let him hear the rumors and report them to the king. Let him think . . . Someone brighter might suspect the truth, but by the time they did she’d be ready. And then she’d deal with the king.

  “I’ll think of something,” she said. “Good luck.”

  “And to you,” William said.

  Kat opened the hatch, nodded to Scott as she walked out, and stepped through the airlock. The superdreadnought felt welcoming, yet . . . there was a faint sense of threat hanging in the air, an awareness that it was no longer her territory. Her mind spun, her thoughts chasing their tails as she made her way back to her cabin. The datachips felt heavy. She was almost tempted to drop them in the recycler instead of studying the files.

  She frowned as she reached her cabin, closing and locking the hatch. Her original crew had been loyal to her personally, but now . . . the combination of colonials and the king’s loyalists could prove dangerous. She considered the problem as she found a datapad and carefully isolated it from the ship’s communications network. It was technically against regulations, but no one would press charges against her. She checked, just to make sure. If someone found the datachips, charges concerning jailbroken datapads would be the least of her worries. Jenkins would probably have her assassinated, rather than risk having rumors get out. The conspiracy theorists would have a field day.

  And if I don’t find a way to take back control, she thought as she started to read, the king might just get away with everything after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CALEDONIA/INTERSTELLAR SPACE

  “Governor?”

  Governor Bertram Rogan frowned as his secretary tapped on the open door and peered into the office. He’d been expecting trouble ever since he’d started preparations to take control of the fleet, preparations that had been badly disrupted by the occupation and liberation of Fotheringay. The king and his admirals were moving officers and crewmen around with a frequency that worried him, suggesting that they had a vague idea of what he had in mind. If they knew the truth . . . The only thing that kept him from panicking, from launching a desperate bid for total victory or total defeat, was the simple fact that he hadn’t been arrested already. The king, whatever else one could say about him, was not the sort of person to let the grass grow under his feet. He would have arrested Bertram already if he knew the governor was the one behind the plot.

  Unless he’s hoping to ferret out the remainder of the plotters, Bertram pondered as he looked up. That makes a kind of sense too.

  “Yes?” Bertram kept his voice level. There were contingency plans, but he preferred not to use them. “What is it?”

  “A message from the king, sir,” his secretary informed him. “The inner council has been summoned.”

  “I see,” Bertram said slowly. “Did he say why?”

  “No,” his secretary said. “But a car is already waiting for you.”

  Bertram nodded. “I’m on my way,” he said. “I’ll be back in time for tea.”

  I hope, he added silently as he walked up the stairs and onto the roof. The aircar looked nice and normal, but the pair of armed flyers holding position above it were worrying. This could be a trap.

  He calmed himself as he climbed into the craft. The driver took off, steering a course between the towering skyscrapers directly towards the palace. There were surprisingly few vehicles, either in the air or on the ground. The streets below were lined with protesters, troops, and reporters, the latter gleefully filming the other two. The population hadn’t heard, yet, that the king had already liberated Fotheringay. Bertram wondered, sourly, why no one had told them. The engagement might have been a bit of a damp squib, but it had ended in victory. The king should be gloating to the entire universe.

  The aircar tilted, dropping towards the palace. There were more armored vehicles on the streets, from antiaircraft platforms to tanks and personnel carriers. Bertram wondered what the planetary government thought of it all. The king had practically taken over the inner city. Maybe they felt they couldn’t resist. Caledonia had been the king’s pet project for so long that he probably owned the entire government. He’d certainly had no troub
le convincing them to take him in.

  He braced himself as he landed, the hatch opening to reveal Sir Reginald. The king’s fixer dropped Bertram a deep bow—a sign, perhaps, that Bertram wasn’t in trouble—and led him down the stairs to the innermost chambers. The king himself was standing by the head of the table, flanked by his wife and Admiral Lord Garstang. Bertram frowned as he bowed to the king, then took his seat. Lord Garstang wasn’t a bad sort, for a nobleman, and his logistics talents were undisputable, but he was the king’s man, through and through. He just couldn’t be trusted completely. No aristocrat could be trusted completely.

  “Kat Falcone isn’t here,” Lord Gleneden said. “Should we proceed without her?”

  “There’s no time,” the king said. His voice was low, but Bertram could hear an underlying note of anger. “We have to proceed immediately.”

  Bertram winced inwardly as the remainder of the council took their seats. The king himself stayed standing, leaning on his chair as if he wanted to pace the room or lash out at an unseen enemy. Kat Falcone couldn’t be trusted, but . . . he frowned as he surveyed the room. She was a rationalist, like Lord Gleneden—and unlike most of the inner council. Earl Antony was a fire-eater, Lord Snow seemed to believe that supporting the king was the only option . . . Bertram was mildly surprised he’d been summoned. He’d opposed the king often enough to be firmly on his enemies list.

  “We received a message forty minutes ago,” the king said. “From Quist.”

  “Quist?” Lord Gleneden looked worried. “I thought they were—”

  The king spoke over him. “They have formally withdrawn from both the war and the Colonial Alliance,” he said. His eyes rested on Bertram for a long moment. “I imagine”—his voice was laden with sarcasm—“that their message to the House of Worlds has yet to arrive.”

  “No,” Bertram agreed. He forced himself to think. Quist wasn’t that important, in the grand scheme of things . . . No, that wasn’t true. The world had a sizable industrial base. Tiny, compared to Tyre or Caledonia, but large enough that losing it would hurt. And yet, he wondered just what offer the House of Lords had made to convince the planetary government to drop out of the war. Or, perhaps, to switch sides. “We haven’t heard anything.”

  “My agents inform me that they intend to join the House of Lords, as soon as enemy ships arrive,” the king said. “This treason cannot be allowed to stand.”

  “They have the right to withdraw,” Lord Gleneden said carefully. “Your Majesty . . .”

  “They do not have the right to change sides,” the king said. He glared at the dovish lord. “And even if they do have a legal right to do whatever the hell they please, why the fuck should we condone it? Why should we let them do something that will hurt us?”

  Bertram blinked in surprise. He was no stranger to foul language. The Colonial Alliance preferred blunt-spoken men to polished politicians, and if that meant a little profanity around the discussion table . . . well, he’d heard worse. But it was odd to hear the king swearing like a drunken spacer.

  “I’m dispatching Admiral Ruben with orders to secure the system, take control of the planetary defenses, and seize their industrial base,” the king continued. “If they don’t resist, well and good. If they do, they will be punished. Let there be no doubt, now or ever, that treason will not go unpunished. Justiciar Montfort will accompany the squadron, with orders to ferret out the traitors and drag them back in chains . . .”

  “Your Majesty,” Bertram said. Montfort? The man the king had promised would never serve in a position of power again? “I understand your feelings, but we must not act hastily. We must—”

  “Act fast, before someone else jumps ship,” the king said. “How many other worlds would switch sides if they thought they could get away with it?”

  “And that they wouldn’t be punished by the House of Lords, afterwards,” Earl Antony purred. “Perhaps we should leave them alone. Their punishment will come if their new side wins the war.”

  The king snorted. Bertram hid his surprise with an effort. Earl Antony . . . on his side? It didn’t seem quite right, somehow. But the fire-eater wanted to take the war to Tyre, to recover the estates he’d lost or die trying. He didn’t want a diversion to Quist, not when he wanted the fleet heading to Tyre. He’d complained enough about sending Kat Falcone to Fotheringay. Who cared about a tiny little world when Tyre was ripe for the plucking?

  Bertram leaned forward. “Your Majesty, public opinion won’t stand for it.”

  “Who cares?” The king started to pace the room. “Public opinion”—he made the words a curse—“was prepared to sell you all out, just for a few extra years of peace. The public doesn’t understand what has to be done. We have to act fast.”

  No, Bertram thought. We—us—have to act fast.

  He groaned, inwardly, as the king continued to rant about treason and ungrateful bastards in high places. Admiral Ruben was loyal to the king, completely loyal. If the king ordered him to commit an atrocity that would make the Theocracy blanch, Admiral Ruben would do it without a second thought. And Justiciar Montfort? If there was anyone more unpopular among the Colonial Alliance than Montfort, Bertram had never heard of him. The king had to be out of his mind. A heavy-handed response to Quist departing the alliance would unite everyone against him.

  And there’s no way to talk him out of it, Bertram thought. Their plans would have to be moved up, fast. They’d have to hope they could take control of enough ships and platforms to force the king to surrender, if they couldn’t trap or kill him on the ground. And then . . . they’d have to see what terms they could get. We have to move now or lose everything.

  “We will not let this pass,” the king said. “Dismissed.”

  No, Bertram agreed as he headed to the door. We won’t.

  “There have been some . . . mutterings . . . about how you conducted the battle,” Duke Peter said. “They think you should have gone for the kill.”

  “We expected as much,” William reminded him. He felt his heart twist again. He’d been uncomfortable ever since he’d returned to his ship. “And you know what we had in mind.”

  “Yes, but the others don’t.” Duke Peter steepled his fingers. “We can delay things long enough for the plan to work, in which case you’re a genius, or for something else to happen.”

  “And in that case, I’m a complete idiot,” William commented. He smiled. The great commanders of human history had often been considered mad before they pulled off something conventional wisdom said couldn’t be done. “We’ll see.”

  “Yes, we will.” Duke Peter let out a breath. “The Grand Admiral will forward you your official orders in a moment, but, whatever happens with Kat, you’re going to Quist.”

  William leaned forward. “They joined us?”

  “Not quite,” Duke Peter said. “Officially, they’ve withdrawn from the war. They’re filing their departure from the Colonial Alliance even as we speak. Unofficially, they’ll change sides once we have a fleet in place to protect them. You need to be there as quickly as possible.”

  “We can be there in five days,” William said. Quist should have waited. Or given him more advance notice. It was going to be close. “We’re going to have to circle around Caledonia, unless we want to risk blazing through the system.”

  “Do as you see fit.” Duke Peter’s eyes suddenly sharpened. “How did she take it?”

  “I think she believed me,” William said. “But I don’t know what she’ll be able to do about it.”

  “She’s smart,” Duke Peter said. “She’ll think of something.”

  William wasn’t so sure. Joel Gibson, damn him to hell, had years to plan his mutiny. Kat had a few days, at best. And, after the first mutiny, the navy had taken precautions to prevent another one. They hadn’t been good enough to keep a significant percentage of the active-duty fleet from joining the king, but they might be good enough to keep Kat from plotting a mutiny of her own. He scowled, knowing just how distant
an admiral was from his crew. Kat’s first crew would have followed her into hell itself. Her current crew might not be so sure where their loyalties lay.

  Particularly as they won’t give a damn about Duke Falcone, William thought. He found it hard to care about Duke Cavendish, who’d vanished with Supreme. If he hadn’t known Kat’s father, he wouldn’t have been too concerned about his death either. The colonials may even think the king did the right thing.

  “I’m sure she’ll come up with something,” William said. He wished Pat Davidson hadn’t died on Ahura Mazda. If Kat got the marines on her side, securing the fleet would be a piece of cake. “And even if she doesn’t, there are other plans.”

  “Quite,” Duke Peter said. “I’ll keep you informed of developments here.”

  William nodded as the duke’s hologram vanished. Kat would be on her own, at least for the next few weeks. He knew he couldn’t help her. He had his orders. If Quist had declared independence, the king was likely to do something drastic in hopes of putting them back in their box. William doubted it would end well.

  He keyed his terminal. “Commander Yagami?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Inform the fleet,” William said. “We’re heading for Quist. Maximum speed.”

  “Aye, sir,” Yagami said. “Sir . . . do you want to risk brushing past Caledonia?”

  William frowned. Theoretically, the fleet would remain undetected as long as they didn’t drop out of hyperspace. There should be no danger. But if he was wrong . . . He sucked in a breath. He had to get to Quist as quickly as possible. The risk was unpleasant but could be borne—would have to be borne.

  “Yes. Take us on the quickest possible course, maximum speed.”