Peter sighed, inwardly, as the MPs started a mixture of cheers and boos. The Royal Wedding was a touchy subject, particularly when the kingdom was expected to help pay for it. A number of MPs and talking heads had asked, not too politely, why the king couldn’t pay for it himself, as he was probably the richest landowner in the system. The Royal Corporation wouldn’t begrudge him a few million crowns to throw the wedding of the century.
Except there’s precedent for the kingdom to fund the ceremony, Peter thought. And that gets awkward when half the kingdom dislikes the bride.
He listened, carefully, as the prime minister stood and extolled the virtues of the match. Princess Drusilla—she wasn’t really a princess, but the title had stuck—was not, in some ways, a bad choice. She had no ties to the local aristocracy, so the wedding wouldn’t give any one family an unexpected prominence; she was a war hero, someone who’d risked her life to warn the Commonwealth of the oncoming storm . . . Yes, she did have her advantages. But she was also a foreign national, the child of someone who’d waged war on the Commonwealth and, perhaps, not to be trusted. The people who feared the effects of creating and widening the Commonwealth had no reason to like Drusilla. They would sooner the king married a talented commoner from Tyre.
And he chose his bride-to-be himself, Peter remembered. That didn’t go down well with the people who expected to help him choose.
He couldn’t help feeling a moment of genuine respect for the king. Peter’s marriage to Alison had been arranged by both sets of parents, although he’d known his future bride for years before the match was arranged. It had been a fairly typical contract, with provisions for children, temporary and permanent separations, and a strict division of property. He didn’t dislike his wife, but . . . he didn’t really love her either. The only good thing about the arrangement, apart from their children, was that Alison understood the rules as well as he did. As long as she did nothing to embarrass him in public, or vice versa, he would turn a blind eye to her private affairs. Everyone had expected the king would have a similar arrangement with his future bride.
But, instead, he’d chosen a foreign-born woman.
The prime minister sat down. Israel Harrison stood.
“Mr. Speaker, Members of the House, I will be blunt,” he said. “I acknowledge that Princess Drusilla did us a considerable service, five years ago. I also acknowledge that His Majesty has the right to choose his own bride. But I am not blind to either the political implications of the match, or the financial implications. We are suffering from financial embarrassment”—there were a handful of chuckles—“and we will have to make quite considerable cutbacks in the next few months. Or does anyone believe we can keep printing money without setting off a massive rise in inflation?”
He paused, dramatically. “This is not the time for displays of wealth and consumption,” he added. “You may be thinking . . . hey, a few million crowns here, a few million crowns there . . . pretty soon, we’ll be talking about real money. But, right across the kingdom, people are having to tighten their belts. They are scared, scared that they will be among the first to lose their jobs as the corporations rush to restructure themselves to save what they can. And you wish to taunt them with a Royal Wedding?
“I say no. I say that the public purse should not fund the wedding. And I say that the wedding should be as simple as possible.”
He sat down. A number of MPs buzzed for attention. The speaker pointed to one at random.
“My honorable friend said he would be blunt,” the MP said. Peter recognized him as Kevin Hastings, a close friend of the prime minister. “I will be equally so.
“This is not about money. This is not about public perception of His Majesty and his growing family. This is about xenophobia, plain and simple. The Opposition has opposed the Commonwealth for so long because it is driven by xenophobia!”
Another mixture of cheers and boos filled the air. The speaker gaveled for silence as Hastings went on.
“The Opposition has spearheaded the removal of colonial-born officers and crew from Royal Navy ships. The Opposition has demanded strict limits to the number of work permits issued for foreign-born workers on Tyre. The Opposition has reduced or canceled programs to improve the lives of people on stage-one and stage-two colony worlds; the Opposition has even stated its—hah—opposition to helping refugees find new homes. And now, for all their fine words about financial prudence, their opposition to the Royal Wedding is really about their refusal to accept a foreign-born woman as queen.
“We cannot demand service from the colonials, then refuse to treat them as equals; we cannot open up our world, then decline to share. We built the Commonwealth on the principle of founding a new interstellar order, not exploiting people who were helpless to defend themselves. The Royal Wedding would signify, once and for all, that there is a place in our world for people who were not lucky enough to be born on Tyre. And the Opposition wishes to deny it because it does not believe that such a place exists!”
Peter frowned as the shouting grew louder, despite the speaker’s best efforts. There was a nasty grain of truth in Hastings’s words, although the Opposition would deny them. Tyre had never been keen on accepting immigrants, particularly vast numbers of immigrants who refused to assimilate into society. There was no shortage of horror stories about worlds that had accepted incompatible settlers and wound up collapsing into civil war. And yes, there was a fear that immigrants would steal jobs. He wouldn’t care to be an MP who voted for expanding the number of work permits. His constituents would see it as a betrayal.
And they’re the ones with votes, Peter thought. An immigrant had to work hard before he was allowed to claim citizenship. An MP who betrayed his people would be recalled to face a vote of confidence.
He sighed, inwardly. It wasn’t about xenophobia, he thought, although it did play a role. And it wasn’t about financial prudence either, even though that too played a role. It was about punishing the king. The budget bill had gone nowhere, with both sides refusing to compromise even slightly for fear that such an act would be taken as a sign of weakness. Peter had tried to play mediator, but the king and his government hadn’t offered any concessions . . .
The noise grew louder. MPs were on their feet, shouting insults at their enemies; Peter was mildly surprised they weren’t throwing pieces of paper like children. The lords were slightly more restrained, but it was clear that feelings were running high. It looked as though the speaker was on the verge of ordering the chamber cleared, which would unite the MPs and Lords against him. Peter wasn’t sure he’d have the nerve to take such a drastic step. A speaker could be removed by a simple voice vote.
Shaking his head, Peter stood and walked out of the rear door. A handful of Parliamentary Security officers stood outside, looking nervous. The last time the chamber had been cleared had been back during the Putney Debates and, while no one had suffered officially for their role in the affair, a number of promising careers had stalled immediately afterwards. Politicians could be quite vindictive when they felt affronted, even when it had been the speaker who’d given the orders. Peter didn’t blame the officers for being worried about the consequences of laying hands on the wrong person.
He nodded to the officers and headed down the corridor. People would talk, once they noticed he’d left, but it didn’t matter. The debate had been worthless. It didn’t look as if there was going to be any actual voting for days, if not weeks, and he’d be alerted if someone managed to force a vote anyway. Neither side would really want a vote when tempers were on the brink of exploding into violence. More likely the grown-ups on both sides, if such people existed, would call a time-out, get everyone to calm down and then . . . what?
It doesn’t matter, Peter thought as he reached his office and stepped inside. The room was blessedly quiet. We’re not making any progress at all on the real issues.
He sat down on a comfortable chair and keyed the terminal. A string of reports appeared in front of him, ran
ging from an industrial dispute in an orbiting factory to another set of attacks in the Theocratic Sector. His heart sank as he realized the problem wasn’t going away. The optimists who’d predicted that the Theocratic starships wouldn’t last much longer had clearly underestimated them. He was surprised the prime minister hadn’t used the reports in a bid to rush Parliament into passing the spending bill. But then, it probably would have blown up in his face.
Yasmeena entered, carrying a mug of coffee. “I thought you might need this, sir.”
Peter gave her a smile filled with warm affection. “You’re a miracle worker,” he said. “Did anything come in while I was . . . occupied?”
“Nothing of great significance,” Yasmeena assured him. “A couple of directors want to discuss additional cost-cutting measures with you; I think, reading between the lines, that they want to protest. They certainly saw fit to bypass the regular channels.”
“They can wait, for the moment,” Peter said. His lips twitched. “Do we have any updated political projections?”
“The Government and the Opposition are currently battling for the support of a relative handful of MPs and Lords,” Yasmeena said. “However, there are suggestions that some MPs may be on the verge of breaking their pledges and jumping across the aisle. Both sides are throwing promises around like candy.”
“Brilliant.” Peter sighed. The MPs would pay a price for their betrayal during the next election cycle . . . assuming, of course, they made the wrong choice. Treason never prospered, as the bard had said, because no one dared call it treason if it did prosper. There was too much at stake for a handful of ambitious men to wreck it. “And who is going to keep those promises?”
“The reports don’t say, sir,” Yasmeena said. She looked downcast. “Do you need me for anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Peter said. “I’ll see you later.”
He took a sip of his coffee as he skimmed through the rest of the reports, knowing that most of the issues had already been handled by his subordinates. He could never hope to micromanage something the size of the Falcone Corporation. He’d just have to pray the issues had been handled in a way that wouldn’t cause problems elsewhere. Yet, his subordinates sometimes forgot they were working for him. They preferred to think of themselves as lords of their own petty baronies.
Yasmeena returned. Peter looked up, surprised. “Yasmeena?”
“The Royal Equerry just called me,” she said. “The king would like a private meeting at your earliest convenience.”
Peter tensed. “Just the king and I?”
“I believe so,” Yasmeena said. “It’s in His Majesty’s private suite.”
“I see,” Peter said.
He forced himself to think. Was it wise to go? He wasn’t sure. There was no way he could give his support to the king’s proposed budget, but . . . perhaps, if they met face-to-face, he could convince the king to be reasonable. There had to be ways to make good on some of the king’s promises without destroying the economy. And if the king refused to compromise, Peter could oppose him with a clear conscience.
At least he would have tried.
“Very well,” he said finally. “Inform the Royal Equerry that I will see His Majesty within the hour.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
* * *
ASHER DALES
“This is the Admiralty?” Kat stared at the small building in disbelief. “Really?”
“Yep,” William confirmed. “What do you think?”
Kat found herself lost for words. The Admiralty on Tyre was a massive building at the center of the city, only a few minutes’ walk from the Houses of Parliament. The Admiralty on Asher Dales was tiny, really no larger than the average family house on Tyre. She was surprised they hadn’t used a prefabricated building or even set up the offices in one of the dumpsters that had brought the original colonists to the planet. And yet, there was a certain charm about the stone building that was undeniable. It certainly had less room for uniformed politicians who’d never seen, let alone commanded, a starship.
“It’s . . . small,” she said finally.
“It’s big enough for us,” William said. Kat sensed, more than heard, Tanya sniff in disapproval. “And it’ll be a long time before we need more than a handful of administrative staff. Right now, I can do nearly everything in my head.”
Kat looked at him as they stepped through the door. “What happens if you die?”
“The staff will take over,” William said. “I’m planning to rotate officers between staff billets and starship postings, once we get properly organized. There won’t be anyone here who hasn’t had at least some real experience.”
“I wish that was possible on Tyre,” Kat said, honestly. “There are too many people back home who don’t understand the practical realities.”
William nodded in agreement, then led her on a tour of the small building. There were a handful of offices, a meeting room, and a pair of datacores, hidden below the building. Kat guessed there was a third datacore somewhere nearby, twinned with the original two and kept well out of sight. William wouldn’t be fool enough to let a lucky hit put his entire organization out of business. There’d be someone who knew where to find it once the enemy retreated too, unless the entire planet was rendered uninhabitable. The planetary government seemed to take the threat very seriously.
“And this is the dining room,” William finished. “It’s very basic . . .”
“But efficient,” Kat said. A wooden table, three chairs, and very little else. “I like it.”
She smiled. She’d sat through Admiralty dinners that were more about making contacts and networking than plotting the latest offensive. They’d be even more tedious now that the war was over. Here, there was no room for networking.
“Food will be served in a moment,” William said, motioning for her to take a seat. “Did your techs find anything useful?”
“Nothing directly useful,” Kat admitted. “They swept the captured ship from top to bottom, then started to take the datacores apart, but they found very little. No navigational data, certainly. We still don’t know where they’re based. And yet, we did find some things. Their missiles were heavily modified by someone.”
William leaned forward. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” Kat said. “It would take a full-fledged shipyard to do the work.”
“Maybe they built a mobile shipyard,” William said. “We know they built all sorts of boondoggles.”
“Perhaps,” Kat said. “But you know how hard it was for us to produce a workable mobile shipyard. They’re still incredibly inefficient. I can’t see them actually succeeding.”
“True,” William agreed. “So who helped them?”
“We may never know,” Kat admitted. “The missiles might have been modified, but all the modifications were based on freely available technology. There’s nothing that points to a single source.”
“And the crewmen probably didn’t even keep diaries,” William said. “A shame none of them survived to be interrogated.”
“Don’t blame yourself for it,” Kat said. She grinned at him. “Someone back home will be happy to do it for you.”
“I know,” William said.
He looked downcast, just for a second. Kat felt a pang of sympathy. William had escaped official censure for being the victim of the first mutiny on a naval starship, but his career had practically stalled anyway. He would have been sidelined completely if he hadn’t had connections to the Falcone family. And yet . . . she was morbidly sure that someone back home would blame him for not taking prisoners. A half-wit who knew nothing of the realities of interstellar war would probably convince himself that William had deliberately killed everyone on the enemy ship.
“We didn’t find any personal writings among the crew,” Kat said. “They probably weren’t allowed to write anything.”
“It would be a security nightmare,” William agreed quietly. “And they’d be able to enforce it too.”
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Kat nodded. There was no way to prevent naval officers from keeping private journals, if they wished. They’d been warned, time and time again, not to include anything the enemy might find useful, but it was hard to tell what the enemy might find useful. A note of transit times between two points might seem harmless, yet it might tell the enemy where the ship had been and what it had done. There were security officers who’d probably prefer to ban personal records altogether. Kat understood their thinking even though she disagreed with it.
She looked up as a uniformed server wheeled a tray into the room and started to unload the contents onto the table. Cold chicken, beef, and ham, served with bread, butter, and sliced vegetables. A strikingly simple meal compared to what she would have eaten on Tyre, but she didn’t mind. William indicated that she should tuck in, and she did.
“I take it you never caught the attackers,” Tanya said. There was a faint hint of hostility in the woman’s tone. “Or anyone else?”
Kat concealed her amusement. Tanya had a crush on William, she was sure, just as she was sure William hadn’t noticed. It was hard to be sure that Tanya had noticed her own feelings. She might see Kat as a rival without ever quite realizing why. Perhaps nothing would come of it, perhaps . . .
“No,” she said, dismissing the thought. William’s private life was no longer her concern. “I dispatched reinforcements at once, but . . . by the time they got there, the attackers were gone.”
“And the planets were in dire straits,” William said softly. “How bad is it?”
Kat winced. “Dorland is going to have to be evacuated,” she said. “The planet was barely sustainable even before the Theocracy arrived. Now . . . there’s no way they can rebuild before they run out of supplies. I’ve detailed a considerable number of transports to evacuate the population, but I have no idea where to put them. No one seems to be interested in providing homes for refugees.”
“The nearby worlds had too many immigrants dumped on them during the occupation,” William said. “It’s easy to see them as nothing more than troublemakers.”
Debt of Honor (The Embers of War) Page 22