“No one here wants them,” Tanya confirmed. “How long would it be until the planet was no longer ours?”
Kat opened her mouth to point out that there was an empty continent on the far side of Asher Dales that could accommodate millions of refugees, but closed it again without saying a word. The UN had dumped hundreds of thousands of unwanted settlers on dozens of worlds, without bothering to check if the original settlers wanted them. It had been a major cause of the wars. Now, every world had the right to determine if it would or wouldn’t take refugees. She couldn’t ignore their wishes without sparking off yet another crisis.
I could just dump them on a stage-one colony, she thought. But could they even be fed long enough to integrate?
She shook her head in frustration. Modern technology could feed the refugees, but where could she put them? There was no easy answer. A handful of refugees with vital skills could be accommodated, she was sure, but what about the others? And, with the enemy fleet running around attacking randomly, it was quite possible the refugees would move from the frying pan into the fire. Perhaps she could find a way to bribe a world to take them. But it would have to be a very big bribe.
William changed the subject, quickly. “Have you been following events on Tyre?”
“Yeah,” Kat said, silently relieved. “Having a StarCom isn’t an unmixed blessing, is it?”
“A commander’s authority can no longer be absolute,” William agreed. “You can now be bossed around by someone on the other side of the galaxy.” He leaned forward. “But what is happening on Tyre?”
Kat met his eyes. “The king is trying to deal with the situation here”—she waved a hand in the air—“and the politicians are trying to stop him.”
William looked back at her. “Perhaps,” he said. “But it’s also true that the king is demanding too much.”
“I would have thought you’d be on his side,” Kat said. “He’s the one supporting colonial officers. And colonial development.”
“I can see his point,” William agreed. “But Kat . . .” He looked down, just for a second. “I only met the king once,” he reminded her. “I mean . . . I saw him a few times, but I only met him once. That was when I was knighted. And the impression I had, in that brief meeting, was that he was a junior officer who was in way over his head. It’s not something uncommon.”
Kat nodded. She’d made her fair share of mistakes and outright screw-ups when she’d been a junior officer herself. Having to explain to a cold-eyed superior that something absurd had, in fact, sounded perfectly reasonable at the time had not been the highlight of her life. The only good that had come out of the mistakes was learning not to let her enthusiasm get in the way of common sense.
“But the king isn’t a junior officer,” she pointed out. “He’s . . . he’s the king.”
“And yet, the principle is the same,” William countered. “Here he is, desperately demanding everything he wants, rather than trying to get everything he needs. It’s a common mistake for young officers, just on a much larger scale. And I fancy no one could teach him what he needed to know before he took the throne. He doesn’t have any actual experience, does he?”
“I don’t think so,” Kat said. She knew the king had never been in the military, but he could easily have been involved with his father’s diplomacy. “He’s trying to deal with a growing crisis.”
“Which he made worse,” William said. He corrected himself. “No, he’s making worse.” He ran his hand through his hair. “That’s typical junior officer behavior,” he added. “He makes a mistake, and then he makes another mistake in trying to cover it up, and then . . . well, before he knows it he’s in quicksand and sinking fast. Here . . . the king is demanding everything from Parliament, and Parliament is dragging its heels.”
Kat wasn’t sure what to make of it. She trusted William. She respected his opinion. And yet, it was the king who was trying to solve the crisis. He was pushing for increased commitments to the occupied sector, commitments that might save millions of lives. Kat would be glad of any reinforcements—the threat of being summarily withdrawn from the sector had chilled her to the bone—but even something as small as a couple of superdreadnought squadrons would go a long way towards making further attacks impossible.
“We made commitments,” she said, finally. Her father had taught her that she should always honor her commitments, even if they became inconvenient. A reputation for being unreliable, he’d said, could be far more dangerous in the long run. Besides, it wasn’t as if they’d promised to defend the sector against an overwhelmingly superior foe. “And if we pick up our toys and go home, what then?”
“The king’s enemies would say that the commitments should never have been made in the first place,” William pointed out. “He certainly never ran them past anyone who might object.”
“But they should have been made,” Kat protested. “Have you seen that hellhole? Ahura Mazda?”
“I’ve heard the news,” William said. “But can the planet be saved?” He shook his head. “I understand the urge to do everything in one’s power to help people,” he said. “But I also understand that there are times when you can’t save everyone. You have to choose who to help and who to leave to die.”
“Triage,” Kat said.
“Exactly,” William said. “Do you save one person who is on the verge of death? Or do you use the resources you would have used to save him to tend to three more people? Maybe those people will die without attention, maybe they won’t . . .”
“I am not unfamiliar with the concept,” Kat said stiffly. “But the first person is going to die.”
“Yes,” William said. “But three more will live.”
He cleared his throat. “The king has shown consistent bad judgment,” he said. “I don’t deny he has good points, and I don’t disagree with his logic, but it seems to me that paying for everything he wants is impossible. And his reluctance to propose a more meaningful compromise means that Parliament is determined to block him completely. The catfight over the Royal Wedding, of all things, is merely a symptom of a more serious problem.”
Kat smiled, humorlessly. “You’ve been studying.”
“I studied politics for a long time,” William said. “It’s never been as . . . poisonous . . . as they have been now.”
“You’re lucky to be out of it,” Tanya said.
“Am I out of it?” William snorted, expressively. “Whoever rules Tyre will have immense influence on the surrounding sectors. If the king comes out ahead in this political battle, the Royal Navy will deepen its commitment to the sector; if his opponents get to set the agenda, the navy will be withdrawn as quickly as possible. Either way, Asher Dales will be affected.”
“I’m afraid so,” Kat agreed, quietly.
“It could get worse,” William added. “The Commonwealth was never designed to fight a war. King Travis couldn’t turn it into a more federal structure, despite his best efforts. King Hadrian managed to make inroads during the war, but at the cost of making all the prewar tensions worse. And now the war is over, and we have to deal with the consequences of his actions.”
“He did what he had to do to win the war,” Kat said. “My father supported him.”
William nodded. “Yes,” he said. His voice was very quiet. “But now . . . I don’t like what I’m hearing, Kat. People are choosing sides. All those tensions are coming into the open, and . . . and I don’t know where they’ll lead. The Commonwealth could be on the verge of civil war.”
“Impossible,” Kat said. “It’s . . . unthinkable.”
“Is it?” William looked down at his hands. “Suppose Tyre slaps new restrictions on colonial labor? Or puts limits on tech transfers? Or even starts ejecting planets from the Commonwealth completely? How long would it be until outright civil war broke out?”
“Not long,” Kat said. “But even trying to eject planets would be dangerous.”
“Yes,” William said. “People are scared. And scared
people do stupid things.”
Kat sat back, unsure what to make of it. She didn’t want to believe that civil war was possible, let alone probable. And yet, she also knew she’d been isolated. She’d heard worrying stories from back home, but she hadn’t seen anything for herself. Perhaps she should be relieved at being so isolated. If people really were choosing sides, all hell might break out at any moment.
“I hope you’re wrong,” she said, finally. “Anyway, there’s something else I came to ask you. Are you still in touch with your brother?”
William’s face went very still. “I can send him a message, if you like,” he said. “I have a StarCom code for him, although I have no idea how frequently he checks it. It’s just a dead-drop message account, really. Why?”
“Someone is supplying the Theocrats,” Kat reminded him. “If we can find that person, if we can shut them down, we might be able to put a lid on the crisis.”
“It might work,” William agreed. “But I doubt any sane smuggler would have anything to do with the Theocracy.”
“Some people will do anything for money,” Kat pointed out. “And smugglers are constantly on the brink of losing their ships.”
“Yes, but they’d be aiding and abetting destruction and atrocities on a massive scale,” William countered. “They’d have to account for their complicity in war crimes when they get caught. And the force they’d be supplying will not survive indefinitely. Even if it did, even if the Theocracy was resurrected . . . they’d be fools not to expect a knife in the back.”
“True,” Kat agreed. “Can you ask anyway? We’re running out of options.”
“Will do,” William said. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”
Kat sighed. “I wish I knew.”
“Put ECM drones in each of the threatened systems,” William suggested. “They can pose as superdreadnoughts. They’ll know that some of the ships are fakes, but which ones?”
“Good,” Kat said. She grinned at him, remembering times when the universe had made more sense. Was it wrong of her to miss the comradeship of the war? “A splendid idea of mine that you thought of.”
William saluted. “You’re welcome.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
* * *
TYRE
“There is a crowd of protesters outside the palace,” the driver said. “Traffic Control is redirecting us.”
Peter frowned as he put his datapad away and peered out of the window. A mass of people was clearly visible outside the gates, shouting and screaming about . . . something. Large protests had been unknown on Tyre before the war; now, they were depressingly common. A number of protesters were clearly students, skipping classes in favor of shouting and screaming at the palace; others, more alarmingly, were middle-aged men and women, people who should be in professional jobs. He couldn’t help wondering why they weren’t at work.
They probably don’t have any work any longer, he thought as the aircar banked to evade a handful of police and security floaters. The really big layoffs have yet to begin, but too many people have already lost their jobs.
His eyes scanned the palace warily. The palace had always been heavily protected, but the weapons emplacements that had been installed during the war were still clearly visible. He could see armed guards running around behind the walls, as if they feared the protesters would push through the forcefields and storm the palace. Everyone had beefed up their security during the war, but the king it seemed had never stopped. His forces looked to be constantly on high alert.
The aircar dropped down and landed neatly on a pad. A pair of security officers stepped forward, wearing the king’s livery. Peter considered protesting as they scanned his body, then decided there was no point. He couldn’t blame the king’s protectors for feeling paranoid. The enemy agents who’d killed Peter’s father had never been caught. And, judging by some of the chatter on the datanet, the king’s life was in very real danger.
“Your Grace,” a voice said. “His Majesty is expecting you.”
Peter looked up and saw a pretty young woman wearing the red-and-gold uniform of a Royal Equerry. She looked young—too young; there was a hardness in her eyes, barely masked, that suggested she was considerably more dangerous than she appeared. Another protector, then: a protector hiding in plain sight. Peter was used to plainclothes security officers, but this was a new one. The king was definitely feeling paranoid.
“Thank you,” he said.
The woman dropped a curtsy, then led him into the palace and up towards the king’s private chambers. It wasn’t the first time Peter had visited—the palace was a governmental complex, after all—but it was the first time he’d been honored with an invitation to the king’s private chambers. He wasn’t blind to the political implications or to what his enemies would make of it. Too many people would hear about the visit and draw the wrong, or at least inaccurate, conclusion.
Politics, Peter thought. The word was practically a curse. We should just agree to govern rationally.
His lips twitched. There was nothing rational about politics. He’d learned that lesson long ago. Self-interest ruled the more practical-minded politicians, while sentiment encouraged the others to try to look good rather than be good. The House of Lords had the advantage of not having to stand for election, which gave them a long-term view the House of Commons lacked, but the Lords needed to constantly defend their families and promote their clients. It was impossible to expect rationality from either House. The best he could hope for was that they would try to do the right thing.
And yet, we can’t agree on what the right thing is, Peter thought as they stopped outside a large wooden door. One man’s right is another man’s wrong.
The door opened, revealing a large office. Peter looked around, interested. Everything was modern—everything. The style Peter had seen in a dozen offices—solid wooden desks, Regency armchairs, bookshelves, and paneled walls—was missing. Instead, a computer terminal sat on the desk, the chairs were comfortable rather than fashionable, and the walls were covered with smart panels. One of them was displaying the view from the palace’s security monitors. The protest seemed to have grown larger in the last few minutes.
“Your Grace,” the king said. He stood, revealing that he was wearing a simple business suit instead of his robes. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Peter said as they shook hands. “This is an . . . interesting room.”
The king beamed. “Do you like it? I had to take out all the old furniture when I inherited the place.”
“It’s different,” Peter said. “Less dignified, but more . . . modern.”
“Please, take a seat,” the king said, indicating one of the armchairs. “Would you care for a drink? Or something to eat?”
“Just coffee, please,” Peter said.
He sat down, feeling the chair adjust itself under his weight until it was comfortable. It made him feel vaguely unsettled. He’d never really liked chairs that presumed to think for themselves, even though he had to admit that they had their uses. At least it wasn’t trying to give him a massage. There was a subtle message, he was sure, in how the king had organized his chambers. The old had been removed, while the modern had been brought forward. He suspected it boded ill for the future.
“I trust that your mother is well,” the king said as a steward poured them both coffee and withdrew as silently as he’d come. “She declined the invitation to the Betrothal Ball.”
“My mother has yet to recover from my father’s death,” Peter said carefully. There was a great deal of truth in it, yet it was not the whole truth. Caroline Newport-Falcone had been horrified by the mere suggestion of the king marrying the runaway princess. “She keeps to herself these days. Even I don’t see her as often as I should.”
“It is the way of the world,” the king agreed. “Those of us who have work to do”—he waved a hand at the smart panels—“have little time for everything else.”
“
Indeed,” Peter said. He cocked an eyebrow. “And the princess? Is she well?”
“She has endured far worse than social scorn in her life,” the king said. “She couldn’t be happier.”
Peter nodded in agreement. High Society could be a merciless place—there were people who were still shunned for events that had taken place long before Peter’s birth—but it was nowhere near as cruel as the Theocracy. A woman could rise to the top, if she wished, or seek out a career of her own. She was not the property of her male relatives. And yet . . .
He shifted, uncomfortably. His marriage had been arranged. Neither he nor his wife had had any real choice. But they’d reached an accommodation, hadn’t they? He hadn’t locked her up in her room and forced her to bear child after child, or had her fixed so she couldn’t talk or think for herself . . . no, there was no comparison. High Society was not the Theocracy. And anyone who suggested otherwise was an idiot.
“It must be quite different,” he said. “To be here, a free society . . .”
“Indeed,” the king said. “Do you realize that, for all her bravery, she had very real problems coping with our world? And she was perhaps the best-educated woman on Ahura Mazda. I daresay that many of her sisters would not cope with our world. They’d rush straight back into slavery rather than learn how to be free.”
“Perhaps,” Peter said. He wasn’t sure how he’d cope if someone dumped him on a completely foreign planet. “She is to be commended for her success.”
He took a sip of his coffee, wondering if he dared suggest that they got to the point. His time was money, a point his father had drilled into him from birth. Social chitchat to break the ice was important, he’d been told, but . . . not when he had too many things he needed to attend to personally. He couldn’t fob everything off on his assistants.
The king seemed to sense his thoughts. “I’ll come straight to the point,” he said, sipping his own coffee. “I would like your support on the budget proposal.”
Debt of Honor (The Embers of War) Page 23