Debt of War (The Embers of War)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “Report,” she ordered.

  “We’re clear of the fortresses,” Honshu stated. “And we have solid laser links to a handful of other ships.”

  “Assemble a command datanet,” Sarah commanded. “And figure out who’s in charge . . .”

  Alarms howled. Red icons appeared on the display. Sarah stared, torn between relief and a sinking sensation that told her the war was over and they’d lost. Four superdreadnought squadrons and flanking elements, heading straight towards the planet. The House of Lords had attacked at the worst possible time. The fleet was in no state to mount a defense, even if it wanted to fight. The Battle of Caledonia was going to be a walkover.

  “Captain, the incoming fleet is hailing us,” Honshu said. “The entire system will hear them.”

  “Put it through,” Sarah said calmly.

  “. . . Is Admiral McElney,” a voice said. “You are ordered to stand down and prepare to be boarded. Crews that surrender will be treated as POWs, detained until the end of the war then allowed to return home. Ships that refuse to surrender will be regarded as hostile and destroyed without further warning. This is . . .”

  “The message is repeating,” Honshu said. “Captain?”

  Sarah glanced at Remus. The incoming ships would pass within firing range well before Merlin could power up her drives and jump into hyperspace. They didn’t have a hope of escape, let alone standing in defense of Caledonia. The command network was shattered beyond repair. And she didn’t know how many of her crewers could be trusted. God alone knew what they’d do if they learned what was happening.

  Sarah was no coward. She knew she was no coward. But she had no intention of throwing her crewers into the fire for naught.

  “Stand down,” she ordered reluctantly. “Take us out of the fight.”

  William ignored the series of alarms and complaints from his engineers as the fleet advanced on Caledonia, into a scene out of nightmares. He’d redlined his drives to reach the planet before someone, anyone, took control and rebuilt the defenses, but it was starting to look as if he needn’t have hurried. The enemy fortresses had battered themselves practically into scrap or depowered themselves or . . . He sucked in his breath as his tactical staff struggled to impose order on what they were seeing. It looked as though there were a dozen different sides, all wrapped up in their own struggle even as his fleet bore down on them.

  “A number of ships are surrendering, sir,” Yagami said. “But I can’t raise the planet itself.”

  “They might have destroyed their own command and control network,” William said. It would be irritating as hell if the rebels, whoever they were, had killed the only people who could order a surrender. He stared at the display, as if looking closer would bring him the answers he lacked. “Where is the king?”

  “Unknown, sir,” Yagami said. “I can’t locate a command post.”

  “Then keep us heading towards the planet,” William said. Once he took the high orbitals, the king and his allies—and enemies—would no longer be a major factor. “We’ll engage any defender who refuses to surrender when we come into range.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “That’s confirmed, Your Majesty,” the naval officer said. “The House of Lords has attacked!”

  “Treachery,” the king shouted. “I am betrayed by everyone!”

  By the universe itself, Francis thought. The timing wasn’t perfect. Apparently, the House of Lords had merely taken advantage of the uprising rather than planning and directing it from Tyre. There was no way to be sure, but he’d been in politics long enough to know the signs of someone directing the storm. The timing would have been better, he was sure, if the House of Lords had planned the insurgency from the start. You simply got unlucky.

  Another rumble ran through the building. “They’re pressing in from the north,” General Ross said. “Your Majesty, we need to get down to the bunker.”

  The king’s eyes were wide and staring. Perfect. He couldn’t believe what was happening. Francis’s plan took shape. A window of opportunity had appeared if he had the chance to use it. But . . . that wouldn’t be easy. Too many other factors were at play for him to be completely certain of success. And yet, if the ploy worked, it would boost his career to the highest levels.

  “Your Majesty,” he said gently. “You do have another option.”

  The king rounded on him, hope dawning in his eyes. “What do you suggest?”

  “You take your loyalists to the border worlds,” Francis said. “You set up a base there, under our protection. And you could plan your reconquest of Tyre and the Commonwealth . . .”

  “Exactly.” The king turned to his staff. “Prepare all personnel on the alpha list for transit to the shuttles. We’ll join Admiral Ruben and travel to the border.”

  “The skies aren’t clear,” General Ross warned. “Your Majesty . . .”

  “It’s that or die!” Earl Antony slammed his fist into his palm. “We have to go now.”

  “Quite,” the king said. “And Admiral Ruben can clear the way.”

  Francis frowned inwardly. He would have preferred the king alone, with perhaps a handful of ships. There was no way to know how many starships and crews would follow Hadrian to the border. If there were too many, they might become a problem that neither Tyre nor Marseilles could easily overlook. But . . . He pasted a calm expression on his face, trying to look benevolent as the king’s courtiers looked at him with new hope. They didn’t have any other options. The best they could expect, if they fell into enemy hands, was spending the rest of their lives in exile. Somehow, after whatever had happened at Quist, Francis doubted the House of Lords would be so kind.

  “Send Ruben the targeting data,” the king ordered. “And tell him to put it into effect at once.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” General Ross said. “And now, if you don’t mind, we must go.”

  The king grinned. “Of course, of course . . .”

  Admiral Henri Ruben felt sweat trickling down his back as his fleet slid into high orbit, carefully keeping their distance from the handful of disloyal fortresses. The enemy ships were right behind him, trying to trap his ships against the planet . . . He gripped his palms to keep them from shaking as the range continued to close. The king’s orders had been quite explicit, leaving no room whatsoever for creative interpretation. And yet . . . Henri knew they would have bare seconds, if that, to pull it off. The enemy fleet would close the range very quickly once Henri stopped running.

  “Admiral.” The tactical officer sounded uneasy. “We have weapons lock.”

  Henri nodded. “Fire.”

  A series of shudders ran through the battlecruiser as she unleashed a full spread of KEWs, targeted on the city below. He tried not to think about the impact, about the skyscrapers that would be toppled and the underlying buildings that would be smashed to rubble when the kinetic projectiles slammed home. The king was under attack, and it was the duty of all loyal men to come to his aid, even if it meant slaughtering the innocent along with the guilty. He told himself, time and time again, that they deserved it. They deserved it. The guilty had risen against their king and the innocent . . . they weren’t really innocent at all, because they hadn’t tried to defend their king. They deserved it . . .

  “Impact in ten seconds,” the tactical officer reported. There was a hitch in his voice as he spoke. “Sir . . .”

  “Recycle the drives,” Henri ordered. “I want to be out of here as soon as the king is aboard.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Shit!”

  Bertram spun around. “What?”

  “They dropped KEWs!” Yuan sounded shocked. “They fired on the city!”

  “Who fired?” Bertram realized, to his horror, that they were almost certainly doomed. The House of Lords had attacked in force. Caledonia was going to be occupied, even if she refused to surrender. “Who . . . ?”

  “Admiral Ruben,” Yuan said. “Sir, he . . .”

  Bertram turned to stare ou
t the window. Streaks of light were falling down all over the city, the pattern steadily marching towards him. The ground shook, time and time again, as the KEWs hit the ground. He saw a giant skyscraper shiver, then start to topple like a house of cards. It struck its neighbor, starting off a series of dominoes that tore across the entire landscape. The sound hit his ears, the force of the impact shattering windows and shaking the entire building so heavily he knew they were done for. The walls started to crumble, the floor collapsing into a black hole . . .

  He fought down an urge to laugh as he plunged towards the ground, plummeting to his death. They’d made a dreadful mistake. They’d backed a madman, someone who had led them to utter destruction. And yet, they’d needed the king. They’d been manipulated because they’d needed the king. A truly dreadful mistake.

  And then the ground came up and hit him.

  Francis could feel the ground shaking as the KEWs crashed down, setting off a series of earthquakes that sent cascades of destruction running through the palace. He tried not to think about what was happening outside as they were hurried up the stairs and into the emergency shuttles, about the dead and dying and everyone else caught in the storm. His people might be dead now, he realized as he was pushed into the shuttle and told to buckle up. The embassy was close to the center of the city but far away enough to keep it from being part of the government complex. The structure could have been smashed to rubble by now.

  He told himself that it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t ordered the king to fire on his own city. It wasn’t his decision to destroy the embassy . . . something that was going to cause all sorts of problems if the king became dependent on support from Marseilles. God knew how the government would react. Blame it on the House of Lords? Or demand that the king make a show of punishing his rogue admiral? Who knew?

  A child started crying as the shuttle lurched, then threw itself into the sky. Francis pushed his fears away and forced himself to peer through the porthole, looking out over a vision of hell itself. The city lay in ruins, the crumpled remains of hundreds of skyscrapers lying broken and shattered on the ground. Plumes of smoke rose from dozens of fires that burned out of control. They were already too high for him to see anything as small as a body, but he was all too aware that there would be millions of dead in the rubble below. The devastation stretched as far as the eye could see. He wondered, morbidly, if the king had destroyed the entire world.

  The shuttle shook again, the gravity field fluctuating as it slipped into orbit. The displays had shown a chaotic nightmare gripping the high orbitals, but he couldn’t see any sign of it with the naked eye. Everything seemed so peaceful. He gripped the armrests, feeling terrified for the first time in years. A single missile could obliterate the shuttles in passing, no one knowing who they’d eliminated. He looked towards the front of the shuttle, where the king was sitting with his wife. Did he understand how quickly he could be killed? Or did he simply not care? Francis had no idea.

  His heart twisted as the battlecruiser came into view. The ship looked invincible, completely unstoppable . . . He knew it was an illusion, but he clung to it anyway as the shuttle latched onto the airlock. The gravity twisted again, an unpleasant sensation churning in his stomach as the battlecruiser readied itself to depart. The ships had refused the chance to surrender. Francis was all too aware there wouldn’t be a second, not after whatever had happened at Quist. And Caledonia, now. The House of Lords wouldn’t let the ships escape.

  “Your Majesty,” a voice said. “We are ready to enter hyperspace.”

  “Thank you, Henri,” the king said. He sounded more in control, of both himself and events. “Signal the fleet. The loyalist ships are to jump out and link up with us at Sycamore. We’ll proceed to our final destination from there.”

  Francis frowned. Sycamore? There was nothing there, save for a handful of settlements and . . . He remembered what else was there. A StarCom. The king needed to signal his remaining loyalists, including Admiral Falcone. He’d be able to order her to meet up with him—or something—instead of returning to Caledonia and flying straight into a trap. Good to see the king was thinking again, he supposed. Who knew? As long as the situation wasn’t quite hopeless, it might bring out the best in him.

  And we might have problems dealing with him, afterwards. Whatever else happened, the king was going to go down in history as a mass murderer. Very few others had thrown so many of their own people into the fire, sacrificing countless lives to save their own. A hot potato.

  But it didn’t matter, Francis told himself. As long as the king was useful, his . . . issues could be overlooked. And, once he was no longer useful, he could be quietly tossed aside.

  A shudder ran through the ship, a sense of unease that seemed . . . unearthly. “We have entered hyperspace,” Henri’s voice said. Henri Ruben, Francis guessed. “We’re dropping mines as we flee.”

  And that will make it harder for them to chase us, Francis thought. It might just give us time to get away.

  “Admiral, they’re dropping mines in hyperspace,” Yagami reported. “The forward pursuit elements are already reporting energy storms.”

  “Cancel the pursuit,” William ordered. There was no point in trying to give chase, not with the king deliberately agitating hyperspace. He was running a serious risk, but he was desperate. If he was caught now, he’d be lucky to survive long enough to stand trial. “Order the advance elements to take control of the high orbitals.”

  He let out a long breath as the roar of battle slowly died away. Caledonia had gone silent. His long-range scans revealed that the planet’s capital was nothing more than a pile of rubble. The king’s ships hadn’t struck many targets outside the capital itself, but what they had done was quite enough. They’d aimed to destroy as much of the planetary government and infrastructure as possible, and they’d succeeded. William had no idea who was in charge down there, if anyone was. It was quite likely that a lowly councilor might be the senior surviving government official. No one was left, as far as he could tell, with the authority to order the planet to surrender.

  “Admiral,” Yagami said. “The marines are taking possession of the surrendered starships now.”

  “Very good,” William said. “Once the ships are secure, and the crews transferred to Caledonia, the marines are to provide what help they can to the locals.”

  He turned his attention to the starchart, rubbing his chin as he considered his options. The king could have gone anywhere, but . . . his logistics chain had been shot to hell. Was he trying to link up with Kat? He was in for a nasty surprise if he did. Or . . . or what? There was no way he’d be able to get back to Tyre now. He only had a handful of ships under his command, and they’d all been through hell. Perhaps he would go to Kat. She would put an end to this.

  “Power up the StarCom,” he ordered. “Contact Tyre. Inform them that we have secured Caledonia.”

  “Aye, sir,” Yagami said. “Is it over?”

  “Not until the king is dead,” William said. Perhaps Hadrian would head into unexplored space and try to set up a colony. Ideal, he supposed. The king simply didn’t have the resources to establish an industrial base. Given time, his own people would overthrow him. But William knew better. It really wasn’t over. “And now we have to track him down, before he finds a way to strike back.”

  And Scott might have to take a message to Kat. She has to know what happened here before she hears it from the king.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  FOTHERINGAY

  “This is impossible,” Jenkins said. “Admiral . . .”

  Kat nodded, concealing her own astonishment as best as she could. She’d run out of excuses to keep the StarCom powered down eventually, but it had worked out better than she’d ever dreamed. Caledonia had fallen, the king was on the run . . . and he’d issued orders for her to take her ships and join him. It was abundantly clear, all too clear, that he was making a run for the border.

  Not that he has anywhere else to go. T
he news broadcasts had made that clear too. The Colonial Alliance is in open revolt, and Tyre will welcome him back with a hangman’s noose. His only hope is to head to the border and pray the House of Lords doesn’t feel like starting a third interstellar war.

  She cursed as the king’s scheme took shape in her mind. He’d already sold the border stars to Marseilles. If he turned them into a vest-pocket empire, a client state . . . the Marseillans might be quite happy to bring him under their wing. Or they might recoil in horror. They had a fig leaf of legality when it came to claiming the systems for themselves, but they had no cover at all if they wanted to protect the king. They might simply take him prisoner and return him to Tyre. But . . .

  Father could have made the politics work, she thought morbidly. The king doesn’t even begin to have his political skill.

  No matter, she told herself firmly. The king was not going to get away, even if she had to kill him personally. She’d follow orders, up to a point. And . . . She smiled inwardly as the rest of the pieces fell into place. The king had given her the tools she needed to stick a knife in his back.

  The intercom chimed. “Admiral, John Galt has entered the system,” Kitty said. “He’s requesting permission to . . .”

  “Later,” Kat said. She saw a knowing look in Jenkins’s eyes and felt a flash of amusement. Let him think badly of her for a few hours longer. “Tell them to hold station and wait.”

  She looked at Jenkins. “We cannot allow word of this to get out,” she said. “Half the crew is colonial. They’ll turn on us in an instant if they hear that the king and the Colonial Alliance have fallen out.”

  Jenkins paled. “Do you think they can take the ships?”