Debt of War (The Embers of War)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “Mr. Ambassador,” a voice said. “Thank you for coming.”

  Francis turned as Duke Peter strode into the room, heading straight for the desk. Francis’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead as he wondered why the duke had come in person rather than delegate the task to a subordinate. An ambassador could be disowned, if he got his planet into trouble; a duke, one of the most powerful men on the planet, had far less freedom to maneuver. Francis wasn’t blind to that message either. Whatever he was about to hear had come straight from the dukes, from the leaders of Tyre and the Commonwealth. There would be no going back on it.

  “Your Grace,” Francis said. He’d never really expected to meet the dukes. “I . . . thank you for inviting me.”

  Duke Peter sat, resting his elbows on the hard metal desk. “This will be a short meeting,” he said bluntly. “First, as I’m sure you’re aware, the king’s government has been declared illegitimate right from the start. The deals he made with you have no legal validity, and the Commonwealth will not honor them. Even if that was the case, selling the border stars to you was illegal under the Commonwealth Treaty. The border stars themselves have protested the king’s attempt to trade them away in the strongest possible terms.

  “That said, we accept that you were . . . misled on the issue. We believe that you believed you had a valid claim when you attempted to occupy the systems. We will not press the issue of you laying claim to the stars. In exchange for this, we want you to abandon your demand for payment for services rendered. The king’s government had no legal right to enter into any treaties with you, and we are certainly not obliged to pay his debts. The remaining missiles and spare parts you sent to his fleet will, of course, be returned to you.”

  After your techs have had a good look at them, Francis thought. That will not go down well back home.

  “Second, we protest, again, in the strongest possible terms, your government’s decision to interfere in our internal affairs. We have no doubt that your government would be furious if we were to support separatist groups on your side of the border, which we could easily do. We demand a formal apology for your actions and a complete account of everything that transpired between you, the king, and his allies. If this is not forthcoming, we will have to reconsider the multitude of trade deals between my government and yours.”

  Francis’s eyes narrowed. The trade deals weren’t that important, but losing them would be painful. Worse, Tyre would start aggressively pushing into Marseillan-dominated markets and exporting its products farther corewards. Who knew what that would do to the government’s balance sheet? Marseilles had more enemies than Tyre. They wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of a sudden shift in the balance of power.

  “Finally, it has become clear that you, you personally, overstepped the bounds of diplomatic protocol and gave more encouragement and support to the king than anyone, including your government, is prepared to countenance. Accordingly, you are hereby declared persona non grata, with orders to remove yourself from Tyre by the end of the week and Commonwealth territory by the end of the month. You may not return. Your government may do whatever it likes with you, but you are no longer welcome in our space as a diplomat or private traveler, and if you are caught you will no longer have the protection of diplomatic immunity.”

  Francis kept his face impassive with an effort. It was clear, now, that the fix was in. His government would blame everything on him, giving them political cover to step back from a war. They’d backed him every step of the way until . . . He scowled, promising himself that it was not over. He had friends and allies on Marseilles. He could push back, given time. He could salvage something from the disaster, if he acted fast. But . . .

  “I understand.” The words tasted like ashes. “I’ll return to the embassy, then book transport tonight.”

  “Good.” Duke Peter stood. He didn’t offer to shake hands. “I look forward to meeting your replacement.”

  Hah, Francis thought.

  “I’m sure you will enjoy the experience,” Francis said crossly. He didn’t try to hide his anger. “And if you’d lost the war, you’d be begging yourself.”

  “Perhaps.” Duke Peter smiled, although there was no real joy in the expression. “But we didn’t lose, did we?”

  “No,” Francis agreed. “You won.”

  For the moment, he added, silently. He’d seen the reports. The Colonial Alliance had shattered, but the problems that had birthed it were still there. The House of Lords was doing nothing more than papering over the cracks, as far as he could tell. Sure, they were making noises about doing the right things, but . . . were they? Francis wasn’t so sure. And if they didn’t make any real changes, they might wind up refighting the war. Your victory may turn to dust in your hands.

  He bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. It was hard to say the next words, but . . . there was nothing to be gained by spitting in the duke’s face. He had a career to rebuild. “My congratulations on your victory.”

  Turning, he strode out of the room.

  Captain Sarah Henderson—who wasn’t sure if she was still a captain, particularly now her ship was in enemy hands—paced the brig, wondering what would become of her. Governor Rogan was dead, most of his allies were dead . . . the king was dead. She’d been denied access to the datanet, but she’d been permitted to watch entertainment channels and news broadcasts. The word was already spreading. The king was dead. So far, no one seemed to be his successor.

  She wondered, not for the first time, if she’d done the right thing. The king had been mad, yes, but . . . if she hadn’t led a mutiny against him, who knew what would have happened? Surely . . . She sighed. The king had killed millions of people on Quist and millions more on Caledonia. The news broadcasts insisted the death toll was still rising, as more and more bodies were pulled from the debris. No one had yet found a trace of Governor Rogan or his fellows. Some were already speculating they were still alive. Sarah would have liked to believe it, but she knew better.

  The outer hatch opened. She stilled herself, knowing it didn’t matter. There was no privacy in the brig, even though she was alone. She was under constant observation. The guards rarely spoke to her, even when they brought food. She had the distinct impression that they didn’t know what to do with her. Their ultimate superiors probably hadn’t made up their minds.

  She lifted her eyebrows as she saw William McElney, feeling an odd surge of emotions. Respect, anger . . . even a hint of hatred. William was a colonial, yet he’d fought on the wrong bloody side. She found it hard to understand why he’d thrown away his chance to lead the colonials to victory . . . Perhaps he’d simply never liked or trusted the king. Or . . . things would have been different, she supposed, if his homeworld hadn’t been destroyed. His people had taken no side in the war.

  “Admiral,” she said. She stepped up to the forcefield and peered through the faint haze. “What can I do for you?”

  William studied her for a long moment. “First, there’s a general amnesty for anyone who wasn’t guilty of crimes against humanity,” he said. “You qualify. There will be a brief check to make sure you’re not guilty, but . . . if so, you’re free to go.”

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed. It was a good offer. Too good. “What’s the catch?”

  “You have two choices,” William said. “On one hand, you can accept dismissal from the navy. You can return to your homeworld and enter civilian life. On the other . . . you can stay in the navy, but you’ll be under my command—and, to some extent, in exile—for the next five years. I think you’ll enjoy the work, but . . .”

  “It won’t be command,” Sarah said. She missed her ship, more than she could say. She was born to command. “They won’t give me a ship.”

  “We’ll see.” William surprised her. He tapped a switch, deactivating the forcefield. The haze vanished. “I’ll tell you what I have in mind, Captain. And then you can tell me what you have in mind.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  TYRE

/>   The luxury suite was a prison cell.

  Kat had spent the first few hours of her imprisonment—and it was imprisonment—searching the suite thoroughly, picking out the surveillance devices and proving, to her satisfaction, that she could neither leave the room nor send messages without having them held in a buffer and read first. There was only one way in or out of the suite and it was locked, locked so securely that there was no way she could get out without permission. She’d allowed herself to relax, just a little. She’d had a bath, then climbed into a sinfully comfortable bed, but as she’d waited she’d known, all too well, that her fate was being decided. Her family had probably already disowned her. God knew she’d screwed up so badly she couldn’t hope to save herself.

  She sat on the bed, holding a datapad without actually reading it. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She’d made a terrible mistake and . . . everything she’d done, since she’d realized the truth, didn’t make up for what she’d done before. She wondered, bitterly, what the family would decide. Exile? Death? Or would they hand her over for a public trial? The entire universe knew she’d sided with the king. The entire universe knew she’d fucked up so badly . . .

  A dull click echoed through the suite. The outer hatch was opening. Kat looked up, then shrugged and stayed where she was. If they wanted her, they could come get her. She heard a single person pacing across the floor, then stopping just outside the bedroom door. There was a single loud knock.

  “Are you decent?” Peter. It was Peter. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes,” Kat said, as if she had any choice in the matter. Her brother already knew she was up and dressed. “You may as well.”

  Peter pushed the door open and stepped into the room. He’d always taken after their father, but now . . . the resemblance was uncanny. Kat felt her heart skip a beat as she saw him. Peter had grown up, somehow. The boring, pedantic adult she’d known right from birth had turned into a man of wealth, influence, and power. Kat wondered, idly, what Peter’s wife made of it all. She had to be proud. Or maybe not. Peter wasn’t the man she’d married any longer.

  Not that it matters. Kat stood slowly, brushing down her slacks. Peter could be as ugly as sin and sinful as hell itself and people would still be lining up to marry him.

  “Peter,” she said. It was hard to keep her voice steady. “What can I do for you?”

  Peter took a chair and perched on it. “Why did you support the king?”

  Kat looked down, unwilling to meet his eyes. “I thought he was in the right.”

  “I see,” Peter said. “Even though I was opposed to him?”

  Kat let out a breath. “You weren’t on Ahura Mazda,” she said. “You never visited the liberated zone. You didn’t see the suffering. You didn’t see how much I couldn’t prevent because you kept taking ships and troops away from me. You weren’t there.”

  She forced herself to look up. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” she said. Anger slid into her voice, anger and a bitter hatred directed at herself. “I fucked up. Dad died at the hands of a monster, a monster I thought was doing the right thing. I supported him . . .” She shook her head. “If it wasn’t for me, he would never have escaped Tyre.”

  “Perhaps not,” Peter agreed. “But you were deceived.”

  “I should have known,” Kat snapped. “I should have realized the truth before I got thousands of people killed!”

  “You didn’t,” Peter said calmly. “You were not the only one to be fooled.”

  “But I was the most significant,” Kat said. “I thought . . .”

  Peter held up a hand. The gesture was so much like their father’s that Kat stopped dead.

  “You weren’t the only one,” Peter said quietly. “Very few people knew the truth. The colonials, the naval officers and crew . . . most of them believed they were fighting for the right side. They thought . . . Yes, they were wrong, but they genuinely believed they were fighting for the right. You are not alone.”

  Kat glared at him. “How many of them got their fathers killed?”

  “You didn’t get Father killed,” Peter said. “I read the files. Father was going to decentralize the economy and demobilize much of the military, once the war was over. The king killed him to prevent him from even starting. You are not to blame for his death. You thought the Theocrats had done it and . . . so did everyone else, until recently.”

  He met her eyes. “And when you did find out the truth, you turned on him. You took him prisoner, at great personal risk. You ended the war before it could get much worse, when the Marseillans tried to claim what the king owed them. Yes, you made a mistake. But you did everything in your power to fix it.”

  “Too late for the dead,” Kat said. “Peter, I thought . . .”

  She looked to the floor, all the tangled thoughts and emotions bubbling up in her mind. She’d been prepared to overlook a lot, because she’d thought the king was doing the right thing. She’d been a bloody fool, time and time and time again. Peter was being nice to her . . . He should be dragging her, kicking and screaming, to the gallows. She deserved no less.

  “Peter,” she said. “What happened to the king?”

  “He was executed this morning.” Peter looked embarrassed. “Sorry. I thought you had a terminal here.”

  “There’s nothing more than a library,” Kat said. “Tons of entertainment, from bland and boring books to porn, but nothing from the outside world.”

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said, again. “I can send you the recordings . . .”

  “Never mind,” she said. She’d think about Hadrian’s death—and what it meant to her—later, when she was alone. “What now? What about me?”

  “There’s a general amnesty for everyone—well, almost everyone—who sided with the king,” Peter said. “Those guilty of crimes against humanity, crimes outside the laws of war, will be charged and punished. Everyone else . . . There are some special arrangements for a handful of people, but the remainder are free to go. We’ll discuss that later, if you wish.”

  “Maybe,” Kat said. “Am I free to go?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Peter looked at his hands. “There was a lot of debate about it. Your public image is still pretty good. You fought for the wrong side, but you’re still seen as a hero of the last war, and you’re credited with turning on the king when you discovered the truth. And you aren’t charged with any real war crimes. You are not to blame for the king’s slip into madness.”

  “Really,” Kat said sourly. “And that’s the family’s opinion?”

  “The family is conflicted,” Peter said. His lips quirked. “Have you ever known our aunts and uncles to agree on anything?”

  “No.” Kat let out a breath. “Exile, then?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Peter repeated. “They want you punished. At the same time, they don’t want you too punished.”

  Kat rolled her eyes. “What do they expect you to do? Put me over your knee?”

  Peter didn’t smile at her terrible joke. “We’re putting together a fleet to patrol the liberated zone, given that we were partly responsible for the chaos that swept through the sector during the early occupation. A sizable chunk of the king’s naval supporters—his former supporters—and their ships will be assigned to the fleet. Admiral McElney has agreed to take command for the moment. He won’t have any superdreadnoughts under his command, nothing larger than a battlecruiser, but he’ll have enough smaller ships to carry out his mission. We’ll also be investing in a number of the liberated worlds, in the hopes of them either joining the Commonwealth at a later date or, at the very least, becoming allies.”

  “In other words, you’re doing exactly as I wanted you to do,” Kat said. “Exactly as the king wanted you to do.”

  “I’d keep that opinion to yourself, if possible,” Peter said dryly. “It wouldn’t be very politically correct.”

  Kat snorted, rudely.

  “We’d like to assign yo
u to the fleet,” Peter said. “You’d be in exile, effectively speaking, for the first five-year deployment. After that . . . it depends on politics. Things might settle down here, they might not. I won’t make you any promises I won’t be able to keep. You may be able to come home, you may not.”

  “I get the picture.” Kat smiled as a thought stuck her. “I’ll be under William’s command?”

  “Yes.” Peter sounded inflexible. “The others didn’t want to give you a whole new command, after everything.”

  “I understand.” Kat nodded. “At least William got the recognition he deserves.”

  “Yes.” Peter leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know how things are going to work out. We have the economy stabilized, but . . . it’ll take time to recover from the war. People are still out of work, collecting government benefits and food supplies rather than trying to get reemployed. The jobs just aren’t there. And the colonials . . . Yes, we’ve come to an agreement on debt forgiveness. But I don’t think that’ll solve all their problems.”

  “Probably not,” Kat agreed. “It’ll be a start though.”

  “Yeah.” Peter met her eyes. “Kat. Katherine. I need a decision fairly quickly. I want you away from the system before people start asking awkward questions. And looking for scapegoats.”

  Kat wasn’t surprised. “What are my other options?”

  Peter shot her a reproving look. “Right now? You can be dismissed from the navy and . . . effectively isolated from the family. You’ll be disowned practically, if not legally. I don’t think your enemies have enough votes to make it legal, but it won’t matter. Or . . . you could cash in your trust fund, buy a ship, and go exploring. Or do whatever you want, as long as it’s nowhere near us. Or you could hang around long enough for some enterprising political asshole to start pressing for your trial and punishment.”

  I deserve it, Kat thought bitterly.

  “You can do some good in the liberated sector,” Peter said. “Or you can go into exile.”