Kat knew, without false modesty, that she wasn’t an intelligence expert. She wasn’t skilled enough to spot a detailed deepfake, particularly when the deepfake was in a field she knew nothing about. But she did know enough about orders and mission specifications to spot anything that didn’t quite add up . . . and there was nothing. She hadn’t expected any blatant mistakes, not when the deepfake would be inspected by people who knew precisely what to look for, but there weren’t any small inconsistencies either. The lies were either completely perfect . . .
. . . or they weren’t lies.
She sat on her sofa, feeling tears prickling at the corners of her eyes as she worked her way through the files. The king had planned the war, or at least created an opportunity for the Theocracy to launch their first attack. In hindsight, she wondered just how much the king had planned and how much he’d simply worked into his plan as it had happened. Plans tended to work better if they weren’t rigid. She winced as she read the files concerning her father, concerning his final day . . . If they were faked, they were very good fakes. And she didn’t think that was possible.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She wasn’t sure who she was apologizing to. Her father, who’d been murdered? William, who’d never liked or trusted the king? Peter, who had clashed with her once too often? Or everyone who had died in the last few months? “I’m sorry.”
She put the datapad aside and forced herself to think. There were options. There had to be options. But there were fewer than she wanted to admit. The ship wasn’t her ship, the fleet wasn’t her fleet . . . Someone would object if she led an attack on Caledonia, even if they weren’t personally loyal to the king. And then . . . what? She’d be shot in the back, probably. She couldn’t take control of a whole superdreadnought by herself. Admiral Junayd had done that, back during the war, but he’d been planning to jump ship and leave his crew to die in a hyperspace storm. And he’d succeeded.
I’ve been a damned fool. She wanted to smack herself, hard. If I’d listened to William or even to Peter . . .
She looked back over the last few years, knowing it would make no difference. She’d done as she’d seen fit, as always. She’d thought the king had the best interests of Tyre, the Commonwealth, and the remnants of the Theocracy at heart. She’d thought the rumors about him to be little more than a conspiracy theory, an absurd tissue of lies meant to cover up the House of Lords’ collective incompetence. She’d thought . . . She’d been wrong, damn it. She’d been wrong.
Shaking her head, she picked up another datapad and brought up the crew roster. It was supposed to be complete, but who knew these days? Too many officers and crew had been moved around . . . In hindsight, the king and his loyalists clearly didn’t want his subordinates comparing notes or plotting coups. And she’d gone along with it because she hadn’t realized what he’d done. She really was an idiot. She’d practically waged war on her own family for the man who’d murdered her father. Damn her to hell.
You can’t change what you’ve done. The voice in her head sounded like her father. All you can do is try to make up for it.
She keyed her terminal. Jenkins was still on the planet, thankfully. His subordinates were probably abusing their authority by playing voyeur or something equally despicable. As long as they weren’t paying attention to her . . . She smiled coldly, wondering if they’d noticed her smudged lipstick. Let them think she’d been abusing her authority. Given what she’d actually done, having a semilegal relationship was minor. They’d probably be pleased at such wonderful blackmail material. It would keep them from wondering what else she might have been doing.
“Kitty,” she said. It was hard to keep her voice under tight control. “Contact General Winters. I need to see him. Immediately.”
“He’s currently reviewing the planetary defenses,” Kitty said. “I can get him to you within the hour.”
“Do so,” Kat ordered. Hopefully, Jenkins wouldn’t want to leave the planet just yet. “Is the planetary StarCom active yet?”
“No, Admiral,” Kitty said. “They’re saying it won’t be powered up again for at least two more days.”
How terrible, Kat thought. Her lips twitched. A day ago, it would have been terrible. She was out of touch with Caledonia. Anything could happen in the time it would take to send a message to the king and get a reply, anything at all. But it comes in handy right now.
“Tell them I require priority use of the system, when it’s back online,” Kat said. Jenkins was probably too ignorant to notice, but it was well not to take chances. “And prep a courier boat for dispatch. I’ll need to send messages to the king.”
But not the messages I want to send him, she told herself. I’ll be delivering those in person.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
QUIST
Admiral Henri Ruben prided himself on his loyalty to the king. It had been King Hadrian who’d picked him out of Piker’s Peak and offered him patronage, in exchange for loyalty. It had been King Hadrian who’d ensured a smooth ride through the ranks to ship, squadron, and finally fleet command. Henri knew—he felt no urge to dissemble, in the privacy of his own head—on which side his bread was buttered. He was a king’s man, and proud of it. He’d do anything for His Majesty.
He leaned forward in his command chair as the display rapidly updated. The planet was surrounded by industrial nodes, from giant facilities funded by the king’s planetary development charities to smaller structures assembled by the local corporations and government. Quist has benefited hugely from its association with the king, he thought sourly. Hatred curdled in his breast as he contemplated the depth of their treachery. The king had given them everything, from mining hubs and factories to naval installations and corporate fueling stations. Quist had been well positioned to take advantage, once the king returned to Tyre and took back control. Instead, the planetary government had betrayed their benefactor and sided with the hated House of Lords.
They’ll pay. Henri had spent enough time with the aristocracy to know he hated them. The king was the sole exception. But then, the king actually had power and responsibility. The other aristocrats he’d met spent their days eating, drinking, abusing their clients, and talking down to anyone who didn’t meet their exalted standards. Now Quist would find itself in deep shit, whoever won the war. They’ll pay for what they’ve done.
“Admiral,” the tactical officer said. “The planetary defense force is scrambling.”
“Open communications,” Henri ordered. He hadn’t bothered trying to be subtle. His ships, two battlecruiser squadrons and supporting elements, had punched their way out of hyperspace dangerously close to the planet. “This is Admiral Henri Ruben, speaking for the king. You are ordered to stand down your defenses and prepare for occupation. You are . . .”
He spoke on, outlining the demands the king had told him to make. Henri was fairly sure the planetary government would refuse to accept, but it didn’t matter. If they conceded, well and good; if not, they’d get a savage lesson in what happened to people who deserted their cause and stuck a knife in their former allies. He thought cold thoughts about the missiles in his tubes, ready to fire at the planetary defenders. If they refused to surrender, the fight was going to be very short and sharp.
And there’s no time to do more than sweep up the planetary government, he reminded himself. We might have to leave in a hurry.
The thought ground at him, even though he was experienced enough to know there might be no choice. There was an enemy fleet lurking nearby, although he had no idea where. If Quist had swapped sides, the chances were good the enemy fleet was racing towards the planet already. They’d want to take control, both to protect the locals and to make it clear that Quist wouldn’t be allowed to swap sides again. Henri couldn’t remember who’d said that turning one’s coat tended to be habit-forming, but he believed it. The House of Lords practically operated on the principle of turning coat whenever it seemed advantageous. They were so treacherous themselves that they’d expect perennial decepti
on from others. They never seemed to realize the king was a man of honor.
“Admiral,” the communications officer said. “They’re ordering us to clear their space.”
Henri glanced at Montfort, sitting at a disused console. The planetary government had to be insane. Quist was better defended than most colonial worlds, but not defended enough to stand off his fleet. They had to know he could blast them to hell at will. Unless . . . He frowned as he contemplated the vectors, wondering where the enemy fleet was lurking. If the planetary leaders were expecting it in the next few hours, they might just try to hold out long enough to be rescued. His eyes narrowed sourly. They were in for a nasty fright.
“Repeat our message,” he ordered. “Clear for action.”
The battlecruiser thrummed as the range continued to close. Quist had put together a sizable defense force for a planet of its size, but nowhere near big enough to stop him. A handful of midsized, outdated warships, backed up by several dozen converted freighters . . . They were doomed. They had to know they were doomed. Any modern warships would have been summoned to join the king’s fleet long ago. His gunners were going to use the enemy fleet for target practice.
“No response,” the communications officer said.
“Weapons locked,” the tactical officer put in. “The enemy fleet is activating its drives, preparing to come at us.”
Henri nodded. The king had made it clear that Henri wasn’t to hesitate. They couldn’t let the colonials get the idea that they could leave without punishment, not when mass desertions would spell the end of the king’s cause. The House of Lords would punish the bastards in due course, Henri was sure of it, but by then it would be too late. By the time the colonials came to regret their treachery, the king would be dead and his cause would be lost. Henri braced himself, confident he was doing the right thing.
“Fire,” he ordered.
The battlecruiser shuddered as she unleashed her first salvo. Henri leaned forward, watching as the missiles raced towards their targets. The enemy fleet didn’t hesitate. They lunged forward, freighters moving into attack formation as if they were battlecruisers or superdreadnoughts. The formation was odd. Henri couldn’t recall seeing anything like it in a tactical manual, save perhaps for the handful of object lessons in what not to do. They were closing the range with terrifying speed, but . . . they were flying towards his missiles. Suicide. He liked the thought of his enemies committing suicide when they saw him coming, a joke that dated all the way back to Old Earth, but he didn’t believe it. They were up to something.
He frowned as the enemy ships opened fire. They’d loaded their freighters with point defense, everything from phased pulsars to modified mining lasers. Their targeting wasn’t great, but they were pumping out so much fire that it hardly mattered. Dozens, then hundreds, of his missiles vanished from the display. He blinked in astonishment as he realized what they were doing, using the point defense freighters to shield their warships as they worked frantically to close the range. Their outdated missiles would be worse than useless, unless they were fired at close range. He would have saluted them, if he hadn’t been so angry. They weren’t content with betraying the king. They’d led their people to destruction.
“Target the enemy freighters,” he ordered. “Continue firing.”
The enemy freighters started to vanish. They were tough, but more focused on covering the warships than protecting themselves. A mistake on their part, Henri thought. The ships might be operating remotely—there was a certain lack of flexibility to their movements, suggesting they were being controlled from the ground—but they were still important. Their point defense was all that was keeping the enemy warships from being summarily destroyed. And, with each freighter that vanished, those warships were becoming more and more vulnerable.
“Admiral,” the tactical officer said. “The enemy warships have opened fire.”
Henri frowned as red icons sparkled to life. The enemy missiles were as outdated as their warships, lacking both the drives and seeker heads to pose a significant threat to his ships . . . if, of course, his ships hadn’t been flying right towards them. But the enemy had fired a little too soon. His point defense was already going live, sweeping vast numbers of enemy missiles out of space. And their motherships were taking a pounding. They were being destroyed, one by one . . .
“They’re still coming,” someone breathed. “They’re mad.”
Henri shrugged. The bastards had closed the range too much now. They couldn’t turn and run without being shot in the back. God knew he wasn’t going to let them go. Kat Falcone was a fine naval officer, but she was too merciful. Tarleton should have been soundly spanked for even daring to think of switching sides, whatever pressure was brought to bear on her government. Henri would show her how it should be done. By the time he was finished, no one would dare raise a hand against the king.
And we’ll return home in victory, he promised himself. And . . .
“Admiral,” the tactical officer snapped. “They’re making suicide runs!”
“Bring all weapons to bear on them,” Henri ordered, knowing his crews were already doing so. They were trained to deal with would-be kamikazes. “Take them down . . .”
He felt his heart pound as the enemy ships closed to point-blank range, overloading their drives in the hopes of slamming themselves into his battlecruisers before it was too late. Red icons flared up, warning him of radiation surges that had probably killed the enemy crews if compensator failures hadn’t gotten them first. Their ships were coming apart, but too late. He watched four of them die in quick succession, a fifth lasting long enough to slam itself into a battlecruiser. Both ships vanished from the display.
“Sir,” the tactical officer said. “Justinian was lost with all hands.”
Henri stared, feeling something cold and unpleasant within his gut. A battlecruiser was gone. A battlecruiser, taken out by a ship so outdated . . . His head spun, knowing he was going to be in deep shit when he got home. The enemy had lost their entire fleet, but they’d still come out ahead. It would be a long time before the king was able to replace the battlecruiser, even if he won the war. The colonial shipyards couldn’t churn out anything larger than a heavy cruiser.
“Target the high orbitals,” he ordered savagely. “Sweep them clear.”
The tactical officer hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t quite dare. Henri watched coldly as the officer keyed commands into his console, directing the fleet to fire on the planet’s orbital installations. They’d probably have been evacuated the moment they saw his fleet, but if they weren’t . . . He told himself firmly that the locals had to pay a harsh price for their sins. They were going to pay through the nose for betraying the king. And if that meant blowing away a few hundred thousand trained personnel . . . well, they shouldn’t have picked the wrong side. Quist was supposed to be a democracy. They’d voted for a government that had betrayed its allies and nearly cost them the war.
Cold hatred surged through him as the planet’s orbital installations died. Messages flared up on the display, begging and pleading and offering everything from a truce to unconditional surrender. He ignored them. They’d had their chance. They could rejoin the king, after they’d been punished for their crimes. Until then . . . he was going to make damn sure they understood the price of what they’d done. The fleet closed on the planet, sensors picking out the handful of defense bases on the surface. Those bases were probably being evacuated, if they hadn’t been evacuated long ago. He’d seen the plans. They might have been devised for an entirely different attacker, but the basic concept remained the same. Any target on the surface that drew attention to itself would be smashed from orbit.
And no one is going to worry about civilian lives. They’re going to pay for what they’ve done.
“Bring up the targeting program,” Henri ordered. “Prepare to start striking the planet.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
“Take us into high orbit,�
�� Henri said. “Fire at—”
“Admiral!” New icons appeared on the display. “Vortexes! Behind us!”
“Shit,” Montfort breathed.
Henri ignored him as the enemy ships flew into the system. It was a fleet out of nightmares, a fleet that could smash his battlecruisers as if they were made of paper. A single superdreadnought squadron would be more than enough, but . . . the enemy had four. He tried to tell himself that the ships weren’t real, yet he was too canny to believe such delusions. There were just too many superdreadnought-sized vortexes. The ships might not have opened fire during the previous engagement, but it didn’t matter. The formation they’d adopted spoke of a cold certainty they didn’t need to be clever to win.
“They’ll enter engagement range in twenty minutes,” the tactical officer said. “Admiral . . .”
Henri thought fast. The enemy ships could have come out of hyperspace a lot closer to Quist or his fleet. That they hadn’t suggested they hadn’t expected to encounter him, not yet. They’d chosen to emerge far enough to give the planet a chance to get a good look at them, without coming out so far away that they had to mess around with hyperspace rather than make the transit in realspace. It was sheer damned luck they hadn’t arrived an hour or so ago, when they could have baited a trap. He’d have flown right into the teeth of thirty-six superdreadnoughts before he realized how badly he’d fucked himself.
“We can still take the planet,” Montfort said. “We can—”
“No,” Henri corrected. Battlecruisers were designed for hit-and-run raids, not for sustained combat with superdreadnoughts. Pinned against the planet, their speed advantage minimized if not eliminated entirely, they’d be rapidly and cheaply smashed to atoms. “Taking the planet is out of the question.”
His eyes narrowed as the enemy fleet shook down. Whoever was in command definitely hadn’t expected to encounter him. They’d assumed a formation designed for reassurance rather than combat. They were correcting their mistake now. Too late. They’d dropped out of hyperspace too close to the planet to make it easy to return to hyperspace and close the gap, yet they were still too far to prevent his ships from leaving. He had time to act, unless they decided to risk hyperspace anyway. And there was only one thing he could do.
Debt of War (The Embers of War) Page 28