She shook her head. She was being stupid. And selfish. They’d believed the king’s lies, and it had cost them everything. She’d believed them too, but at least she knew the truth. They didn’t. A hot surge of anger nearly overcame her. They were lying on their backs, doing nothing while she tried to set things right and . . .
“You’ll need to surrender your weapon.” A set of guards stood in front of the hatch, their expressions blank. “It will be returned to you . . .”
“I am a privy councilor and a knight of Tyre,” Kat said, drawing herself up to her full height. She drew on all her lessons for speaking to subordinates as she met their eyes. “By command of His Majesty himself, I cannot be disarmed.”
The guards hesitated, clearly unsure how to proceed. Beside her, Sir Reginald twitched uncomfortably. The correct thing to do was to contact the king, to ask if she could be disarmed, but . . . she had a feeling none of the guards wanted to risk disturbing their monarch. They could try to disarm her anyway, yet they’d expect her to file complaints with His Majesty. As long as he hadn’t specifically ordered them to do anything, they had some wiggle room.
“Keep it, until His Majesty says otherwise,” the guard said finally.
Kat barely managed to keep the sneer off her face as they patted her down, then opened the hatch. She was carrying a loaded weapon, for crying out loud! Their touch was professional, yet . . . they hadn’t disarmed her. Sir Reginald led her into Officer Country, then down to the admiral’s cabin. Admiral Ruben was probably on the bridge, issuing orders that wouldn’t make any difference at all. The fleet had come to the end of the line.
The hatch opened, revealing the king. Kat felt a surge of blind hatred she had to fight hard to keep off her face. He was as handsome as ever, yet his face was twisted into something dark and shadowy. She wondered how he’d been able to hide the monster inside for so long. There was no sign of anyone else, not even Princess Drusilla. Kat remembered Sir Reginald’s dead-eyed look and shivered. The king might be the only one who still believed he could win the war.
“Kat.” The king sounded tired but happy. Pleased to see her. “I’m glad you made it out.”
Kat nodded as she surveyed the compartment, making sure they were alone. Drusilla might be in the next compartment, the bedchamber . . . She kept a wary eye on the hatch as she took the seat in front of the king. Time wasn’t quite up. The marines would get to their targets or . . . or the alarm would sound, and she’d have to do what she could to retrieve the situation. It wouldn’t be easy. There was a very good chance that Captain Procaccini would blow the battlecruiser to hell along with everyone on it. Kat told herself to be calm. She owed it to her conscience to take some risks.
“We’ve made contact with Marseilles,” the king said. “We’ll be setting up a kingdom out here, a springboard to take back Tyre itself. Their fleet is already on the way.”
They must have positioned the fleet close to the border, Kat thought. Readying themselves to take possession of the border worlds.
“Good,” she said, trying to keep the horror out of her voice. How long did she have? She didn’t know. A little voice in her head was screaming at her, telling her to move . . . to move now and to hell with the marines. “How long until their fleet arrives?”
“Not long.” The king smiled brightly. “The enemy won’t find us until it’s too late.”
William is on his way, Kat reminded herself. He already knows where to find you.
She stood and started to pace the room, silently counting down the last few seconds. “Do you think you can win?”
“Of course,” the king said. “I always come out ahead.”
Kat’s wristcom bleeped, once. It was time.
“Tell me something,” she said, allowing some of her anger to bleed into her voice. “Why did you kill my father?”
The king blinked. “What?”
Kat drew her sidearm. “My father,” she said. “Why did you kill him?”
“Put the gun down.” The king’s voice rose, alarmingly. A dull quiver ran through the starship. “Kat . . .”
Alarms started to howl. Kat glanced at the display, just for a second. It nearly killed her. The king threw himself at her, slamming into her body and knocking her to the deck. The pistol flew through the air, crashing into the bulkhead and landing on top of the desk. Kat grunted as he drew back his fist, twisting just in time to keep him from punching her in the throat. His affable mask was gone. His face was consumed with madness as he drew back for another punch.
Kat gritted her teeth, then headbutted him as hard as she could. The king’s body had all sorts of genetic enhancements, but there were limits. Blood trickled from his nose, splashing onto her face. He wasn’t used to pain. She yanked herself forward, out from under him, and brought her knee up as hard as she could. The king screamed in agony, his entire body spasming violently enough to throw him off her. Kat rolled over, grabbed a datapad that had fallen on the deck, and brought it down on his head as hard as she could. His body shook violently, then lay still. Kat hit him again, just to be sure. The files insisted the king didn’t have any real training, but she didn’t really take it on faith.
She stumbled to her feet and grabbed the pistol as the hatch opened, bringing it about to bear on Sir Reginald. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” she snapped. She wanted, needed, to pull the trigger. “What happened?”
Sir Reginald stared at her in shock. Kat waved him aside, then closed and sealed the hatch. It would take time for the king’s supporters to burn it down, time they didn’t have. The battlecruiser’s crew had too many other problems. She glanced at the display and swore openly. A fleet had arrived. She couldn’t tell which fleet.
“You.” She jabbed the gun at Sir Reginald, who cringed back. An unpleasant odor filled the air. “Who’s arrived?”
“The House of Lords,” Sir Reginald said. “They’ve found us!”
Kat’s wristcom bleeped. “Admiral,” Winters said. “We’ve taken control of the bridge.”
“And I’ve got the king,” Kat said. “Order the fleet to surrender. It’s over.”
She ignored Sir Reginald’s splutters as she turned to look at the king. Alive? Dead? She honestly wasn’t sure until she saw his chest move, just slightly. Rage boiled up within her, demanding that she kill him on the spot. He’d led her into betraying the navy, her family, and her father . . . She wanted him dead.
And yet, she knew she needed him alive. Someone had to take the blame for the civil war. Someone had to pay.
“Sit down,” she ordered quietly. “You’ll be dealt with soon enough.”
Sir Reginald found his nerve. “So will you,” he said. “Do you think they’ll let a traitor like you just walk away?”
“Probably not,” Kat said. “But at least I did what I could to fix things.”
“Or maybe not,” Sir Reginald said as new icons appeared on the display. “I think the king’s reinforcements have arrived.”
“Admiral!” Yagami looked up, sharply. “Long-range sensors are detecting unknown ships on attack vector!”
William cursed, inwardly. He’d lost four ships during the headlong rush to Willow, four ships that had dropped out of formation and had been left behind to lick their wounds and wait for rescue. Four ships he’d miss desperately if yet another interstellar war was about to begin. He studied the display, silently assessing the unknown fleet. Marseillans. They had to be Marseillans. Who else could they be?
“Tactical analysis suggests four squadrons of superdreadnoughts, plus supporting elements,” Yagami said. “They’re charging weapons.”
“Hail them,” William ordered.
He forced himself to think. He had three squadrons of superdreadnoughts . . . five, if Kat’s ships were in any state to fight. He doubted it. Her message had warned that she’d put her entire fleet into lockdown, ensuring that no one could rise up against her. William had the nasty feeling that her crews were too confused to fight anyone. He frowned
as his marines continued to take possession of the king’s ships. In theory, he had the numbers. In practice . . .
“They’re responding,” Yagami said.
“Put them through,” William said. “This is Admiral Sir William McElney, Royal Tyre Navy.”
A face appeared in front of him. “This is Admiral Joan Vendee, governor-general of Willow,” she said. “You are ordered to withdraw from our space at once.”
William deliberately took a breath, taking a moment to compose his arguments. “Admiral. King Hadrian is under arrest. His fleet has been secured. His government no longer exists. He no longer has the power to hand the border stars over to you, if indeed he ever did. And we, not you, are in possession of the stars. You’re intruding on our territory.”
There was a long, chilling pause. William kept his face blank, silently calculating the odds. Four squadrons against three was hardly an even fight. Kat’s superdreadnoughts might make up the difference or they might not. Cold prudence told him to withdraw. But he knew he couldn’t, not without conceding the border stars. If they’d been asked, if they’d chosen to transfer themselves to Marseilles, it would have been different. But they hadn’t. They’d been sold for a handful of missiles and God alone knew what else.
“We paid for the systems,” Admiral Vendee said.
“They weren’t his to sell,” William said. He pushed as much conviction into his voice as possible. “Admiral, I understand your position. I also understand that you entered our space accidentally, under the impression that you were doing the right thing. And if you choose to leave now, we’ll say no more about it. We won’t even register a formal protest.
“But if you choose to press the issue, we will have no choice but to fight. We won’t abandon these systems to their fate. We don’t want a war, Admiral, but if you do it will begin here.”
Another pause. It grew longer and longer. William waited, silently praying the enemy admiral would see sense. And then Admiral Vendee’s face vanished.
“Admiral, the enemy fleet is reversing course,” Yagami said. “They’re retreating.”
“Good.” William felt a flicker of sympathy for the enemy commander. If she’d arrived a few hours earlier, William would have had a much harder time driving her out. Hell, he might have been the one who started the war. “Have the king’s ships been secured?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Yagami said. “The king himself, and Admiral Falcone, are on their way here.”
“Then power up the StarCom and contact the Admiralty,” William ordered. “And tell them, when the connection is established, that the war is over.”
“Aye, sir,” Yagami said. “We won!”
William smiled. “Yeah,” he said. He felt . . . relief. And fear, for the future. “We won.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
TYRE
Peter took his place among the remainder of the dukes and watched as the king, the former king, was marched into the chamber. He looked surprisingly well for someone who’d spent two weeks in a starship brig and a further week in a reasonably luxurious cell on Tyre, but there was something shadowy and unpleasant in his gaze. He wasn’t trying to hide what he was any longer, Peter decided. The monster behind the king’s smile was finally in the open. And yet . . .
We stand in judgment, he thought. And none of us have any doubt about the sentence.
The king was going to die. Everyone knew it. His death was the price for ending the war on reasonably civilized terms, for extending amnesty to just about everyone who’d followed him into hell. Not everyone was safe—Admiral Ruben faced an array of charges for crimes against humanity—but the vast majority of his followers would have a chance to rebuild their lives. Peter had argued that they should simply order the king shot, without bothering with a kangaroo court. The remainder of the dukes had overruled him.
We want to prove we put him to death justly, Duchess Zangaria had stated. Or, once he’s dead, people will try to defend him.
The king was half pushed into the center of the chamber. There was no chair, not for him. The chamber was designed to cloak the judges in shadow, to give an impersonal sense to the whole affair . . . Peter doubted it would work. Not really. The king knew who’d be judging him. He stood in the center, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked . . . unafraid. Peter wondered, despite himself, if the king had one final trick up his sleeve. Even now, after the end of the war, after an extensive security procedure that bordered on naked paranoia, it was impossible to be sure. There were dukes and politicians who agreed with Peter, who wanted to execute the king immediately, without bothering with a trial. They feared what he might do.
Israel Harrison spoke into the silence. “Hadrian. You are called before us to answer charges of treason, crimes against humanity, and various lesser offenses. How do you plead?”
Peter waited, wondering what the king would say. He’d refused the offer of legal representation, refused suggestions that might have given him a better chance of surviving the next few weeks. It was hard to tell, really, if the king had given up or if he was waiting for one final throw of the dice. The psychologists swore blind the king was unlikely to give up, not completely. He wasn’t the sort of person who could surrender to the inevitable. Peter supposed it was one thing he’d inherited from his father and grandfather. Their lives would have been very different if they’d given up at the first hurdle too.
The king smiled, as if there was one final card left to play. “I do not recognize this court’s legitimacy.”
Harrison looked irked. “You have been formally impeached,” he said, “and stripped of your rank, titles, and family name. This court has every right to try you.”
“For an impeachment to be legal, I must be impeached in person,” the king said calmly. “And I was not.”
“You were offered a chance to mount a defense,” Harrison pointed out. “And you refused.”
“The point is moot,” Duke Rudbek growled. “Whatever the legalities of the situation, we have the ability and will to put you on trial. You will not be allowed to delay matters with pettifogging legal arguments. Your guilt has been well established.”
“So this is just a kangaroo court?” The king smiled again, as if he’d won a point. “Or is that too generous?”
Yes, Peter thought. The matter would be debated endlessly over the next century, once the recordings were released to the public. But you’re not going to get out of this alive, and you know it.
“You have had the opportunity to read the charges,” Harrison said. “How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
Peter leaned back in his chair. Harrison outlined the case for the prosecution. Admiral Morrison’s secret orders. Admiral Christian’s secret orders. The grab for power, following the declaration of war. The preparation of entire armies of secret clients. The assassinations of at least a dozen people, including the previous Duke Falcone. An attempt to murder the entire political class and seize power by force. Mass slaughter of a planet and city, effective genocide. And, last but far from least, leading a war against his own people.
“What a long list,” the king observed, when Harrison was done. “You forgot to include jaywalking.”
Harrison scowled. “Flippancy will not help your case.”
The king straightened. “No,” he agreed. “To all of these charges, I plead not guilty.”
He let the words hang on the air for a long moment, then smiled. “I wish to make a statement. I believe I have that right, do I not?”
“You do,” Harrison confirmed.
“Thank you,” the king said.
“I do not deny that I have done terrible deeds,” he continued. “There is no one here who has not done, or ordered, terrible deeds of their own. But everything I did, I did for the Commonwealth. I did my duty, as prince and king, to serve the greater interests of my people. It was—it is—my duty to protect them. And everything I did was in their name.
“You accuse me of starting the Theocra
tic War. Anyone who knows anything about the Theocracy will know that war was inevitable. There was no way to avoid it. I manipulated events to make sure the war started at a time and place of my choosing, a time and place that would be best for the Commonwealth as a whole. And I was largely successful. I made sure the war’s outcome would never be in doubt.
“But my duties were far wider than merely defending my people against a foreign threat. It has always been the role of the monarchy to protect the people against their aristocratic overlords. I sought to protect my new subjects from exploitation, from corporations and interstellar banking services that would strip them bare and reduce them to penury. I pushed for investment, right across the Commonwealth, to make sure that the colonials would eventually take their place among us. I believed in the Commonwealth. I sought to make it work, when so many others regarded the colonials as servants at best and inconveniences at worst. You cannot condemn me for fighting for my people.
“My father had a vision for the Commonwealth. I have worked hard to uphold it, despite opposition from the aristocracy. Could you not see, gentlemen and ladies, the horrors wrought by your failures? The people whose lives were destroyed, the worlds that were devastated . . . in many ways, your lack of concern was worse than outright malice. You played games here, in the halls of power, while people suffered on the colony worlds. And then you wondered why so many colonials hated you.”
He paused for a long, chilling moment. “I sought power, not for myself, but to fix the evils you unleashed. I sought power to ensure a more even distribution of wealth and resources, to provide investment and protection for the colonials—and the liberated worlds—until it was no longer required. And you seek to condemn me, not for anything I might have done, but for daring to stand in your way. I did everything for my people. You know nothing of the long term, nothing of the importance of planning for the future. You are so concerned about short-term profits that you cannot look to the future. I did. And I worked for it.”
Debt of War (The Embers of War) Page 36