“I need those ships,” she said. “More importantly, Peter, I need the logistics base that supports them.”
“There’s someone already complaining about you transferring missiles to Asher Dales,” Peter told her. “They’re going through the reports to find something they can use to attack you, and, through you, the king.”
Kat swallowed a curse. “I had every right to transfer those missiles,” she said sharply. “And I can point to precedents if you wish.”
Peter snorted. “Kat, this is politics,” he said. “What makes you think that right matters when it can be used as yet another weapon against the king?” He shook his head. “Kat, over the last week . . . things have just exploded right out of hand. I don’t think it was this bad during the Putney Debates. People are dragging up all sorts of accusations and counteraccusations and rumors and . . .”
“Now you know why I refused to pay any attention to politics,” Kat said. “Look what it did to Ashley. Or Dolly.”
“They’re both fighting for the family,” Peter said. “And . . .”
Kat held up a hand. “Peter, listen to me. The situation is dire. There is a rogue enemy fleet rampaging through this sector, attacking worlds and colonies . . . they’re even taking out cloudscoops to put further pressure on the economy. So far, they haven’t deliberately targeted any major population centers or attempted to render entire planets uninhabitable, but it’s only a matter of time. Millions of people are already dead.
“There’s no way I can guarantee catching the enemy fleet in the act. I’ve got some ideas that might lead to an ambush, but I can’t be sure. I need more warships, enough to let me cover the remaining population centers, and I need more transports to evacuate people from targeted worlds before they die. God, Pete! What I wouldn’t give for a mere tenth of the family’s freighters!”
She met his eyes. “You can’t imagine the devastation. The people here need help and protection, and we are failing on both counts. We need everything from medical supplies to prefabricated buildings, teaching modules to basic construction tools. There are shortages everywhere, to the point where we cannot fix one shortage because of another shortage. Do you realize we’re even short of carpentry tools? I have a bunch of machine shops turning out saws, hammers, and nails because the locals need to cut down trees to turn them into homes or simply burn the wood for heat. We’re short on power plants too.
“And . . .” She shook her head. “And nothing we can do, with what we have on hand, is going to be enough.”
She met her brother’s eyes. “Forget political games, Peter. Please. There are people here who are suffering now, people who will suffer worse if the Theocrats resume control. Do you have any idea how many people will be slaughtered, just because they accepted help from us? Even now, the bastards are killing children because their mothers dared take them to our clinics! This isn’t about the king and Parliament. This is about the lives at risk throughout the entire sector!”
Peter recoiled, as if she’d somehow reached through the display and slapped him.
“Kat . . . we can’t pay for it. Even the fleet deployment alone is expensive. And who is going to pick up the tab?”
Kat glared. There wasn’t a single world in the occupied sector that could pay to house even a small naval squadron. Asher Dales had done amazingly well, aided by some careful investments during the prewar years, but they had practically risked everything to purchase the four destroyers. They could make no more contributions. Even the handful of other worlds that had managed to preserve some space-based industry couldn’t afford to build a full-sized naval base. The cost would simply be too high.
And we’re not just talking destroyers here, she thought. The Commonwealth could operate a fleet of destroyers on shoestring logistics, using freighters to store supplies and perhaps a single repair ship to do any work that happened to be needed, but not superdreadnoughts. She cursed the enemy under her breath, once again. It would be a great deal easier to convince Parliament to pick up the tab if all we needed were destroyers and light cruisers.
“Either we pay for it,” she said finally, “or millions of people—millions more people—will die.”
“And what happens,” Peter asked, “if the stress of funding the naval deployment brings our economies crashing down?”
He held up a hand before she could say a word. “I understand your concerns, Kat,” he said, firmly. “But I also have concerns of my own.”
“Dad would have understood that some expenses have to be met,” Kat said. “And you’re penny-pinching while people die.”
Peter’s eyes flashed. “You have a duty to the family,” he snapped. “And that duty includes not steering everything we have built over a cliff!”
Kat felt her temper start to crack. “I have a greater responsibility to the navy,” she snapped back. She tapped the insignia above her breast. “I am an officer in the Royal Navy, sworn to protect the people! And right now your political games are making it impossible to do my duty! How many times am I going to be told that a superdreadnought squadron is going to be withdrawn in the morning only to have the redeployment canceled in the afternoon?”
“The king is . . . moving to secure more power for himself,” Peter told her. “The balance of power that has kept the kingdom running for centuries is starting to crack.”
“It was starting to crack years ago,” Kat said. She took a long breath, forcing herself to calm down. Her oldest brother had always brought out the worst in her. “Peter, from my point of view, the king is the only person who seems to be concerned with the crisis. You and the rest of the political class are playing games while the whole edifice starts to fall apart. How many people do you want to die?”
Peter made a very visible effort to calm himself too. “Kat . . . do you think that the average man or woman in the streets, on Tyre, cares one jot about the endless series of atrocities from your sector? Look, I get what you mean. I know that each of those statistics represents a living breathing person, a person who was killed by the remnants of the enemy fleet or died in the aftermath. But the average man doesn’t care. He is more interested in keeping his job and feeding his family.”
“He’s in no danger of losing his job,” Kat said.
“Yes, he is,” Peter said. “I’ll send you the files, if you like.”
Kat glanced at her datapad. “Half the stories on the datanet, the ones forwarded through the StarCom network, suggest that the king’s proposals will lead to an economic boom,” she said. “And the other half suggest that we could be on the verge of complete collapse.”
“We are,” Peter said. “Kat, where do your loyalties lie?”
“I told you,” Kat said sharply. “With the Kingdom and Commonwealth of Tyre.”
“And you’re a privy councilor,” Peter reminded her. “Did you not swear an oath to the king?”
“I swore an oath to the king when I entered Piker’s Peak,” Kat said. Officially, the navy served the monarchy; unofficially, Parliament had considerable influence. “Or have you forgotten that all naval cadets swear loyalty?”
“It was a more personal oath,” Peter said, “wasn’t it?”
Kat placed her hands on her lap to keep them from clenching. The oath had meant something to her, the day she’d stood up to make it. She’d believed that she was joining something much greater than herself. It had never occurred to her, not then, that she might not keep her oath. Even now, the thought of going against the navy, or the king, was thoroughly unpleasant. She loved the navy. And she liked and respected the king.
But what happens, she asked herself, if the situation goes entirely to hell?
“You play your political games,” she said, icily. It was hard, so hard, to keep from snarling at him. She’d detested politics to the point she’d been prepared to surrender her family name if it meant she could join the navy. And she had never quite forgiven her father for meddling in her career. “And I will do my duty.”
“You
have a duty to the family,” Peter snapped.
“I swore to forsake all other duties,” Kat snapped back. Had he never looked up the text of the oath? But then, he probably didn’t take it seriously. Too many officers, clients of powerful patrons, didn’t take it seriously either. “Peter . . . people are dying out here.”
“So you said.” Peter glared at her. “Kat, the family . . .”
“Doesn’t need me,” Kat said. She made a show of looking at her wristcom. “I have duties to attend to. We’ll talk later.”
Peter nodded, stiffly. “Be careful out there,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
* * *
UNCHARTED STAR SYSTEM
“You are sure of this?”
Simon Askew leaned back in his chair, smiling coldly. “Have I ever led you astray?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Admiral Zaskar said. He resisted, barely, the urge to start pacing his office. “Are you sure of this?”
“My superiors have their sources within the Commonwealth,” Askew said. “And they have confirmed that the data is accurate. The Royal Navy will be running a major convoy through the Gap on this date, three weeks from now. And yes, they will stop here”—he jabbed a finger at the display—“long enough for you to intercept them.”
“A gift from God,” Moses said.
“It’s suspicious,” Admiral Zaskar said. “They’re sending this convoy with no escort?”
“No superdreadnoughts,” Askew corrected. “The largest ship in the escort squadron is a heavy cruiser.”
“But they will be making a stop at Cadiz,” Admiral Zaskar pointed out. “They could easily pick up a superdreadnought squadron there for transit through the Gap.”
“Not according to my superiors,” Askew told him. “They’re relying on making a fast run through the Gap to . . . to your former homeworld. They aren’t expecting trouble.”
Admiral Zaskar eyed him doubtfully. The target seemed far too good to be true. Hitting defenseless or semidefenseless worlds wouldn’t really harm the Commonwealth, not directly. Taking out a hundred freighters and their escorts, on the other hand, would be a poke in the eye the Commonwealth could not ignore. The more he looked at the convoy’s details, the more he had to admit that it was a tempting target. His superdreadnoughts could make mincemeat of those freighters and then withdraw back into hyperspace before the escorts could stop them. Hell, he could take out the escorts too. It was a very tempting target.
But it was also suspicious. The Royal Navy could easily have arranged for the convoy to link up with a superdreadnought squadron, once they were well outside sensor range. The entire convoy might be nothing more than a trap. He’d need to bring his entire fleet to the engagement if he wanted to take out so many freighters before they could jump back into hyperspace and flee; he’d have to run the risk of encountering superior firepower if he wanted to really hurt the enemy. He couldn’t replace any of his ships. The destroyer he’d lost at Asher Dales had represented a major fraction of his scouting element. She was literally irreplaceable.
And there’s no way we can hope to obtain another superdreadnought, he reminded himself. We have no shipyard. Even significant damage will be enough to put my heavy ships out of commission for good.
He looked at Askew. “You say they’re not expecting trouble,” he said. “But how do you know it isn’t a trap?”
“The plans for the convoy were put together long before you started your attacks,” Askew pointed out. “And, as far as my superiors can tell, they haven’t changed.”
“But they could be wrong,” Admiral Zaskar snapped. He jabbed a finger at the display. “I don’t see how you can be sure this isn’t a trap!”
“There is always an element of risk in war,” Askew told him. “But this is a target you cannot ignore.”
“No,” Moses agreed. “This is a chance to really hurt them. And then, when they’re reeling, we reclaim Ahura Mazda.”
Admiral Zaskar shook his head curtly. The enemy would not leave Ahura Mazda defenseless. There was no way he could commit his fleet to an invasion, or even a siege, as long as the enemy kept a superdreadnought squadron or two there. It was why the convoy was such a tempting target, he admitted sourly. The chance to hit the enemy hard, at relatively little risk, was one that could not be ignored. And yet, he had the nagging feeling it was too good to be true. Whoever had organized the convoy might have laid their plans before he’d revealed his existence, but surely they would have changed things. Unless they genuinely believed that a combination of cruiser escorts and an unpredictable flight path were enough to keep them safe . . .
The hell of it, he conceded silently, was that the enemy might be right. No, they would be right. Under normal circumstances, intercepting an interstellar convoy, either in hyperspace or at a waypoint, would be incredibly difficult. He certainly didn’t have enough scouts to be sure of detecting the convoy in hyperspace, even in the relatively confined region near the Gap. And besides, the dangers of fighting an engagement in hyperspace were well understood by both sides. A handful of warheads detonating in hyperspace would be more than enough to start an energy storm.
Perhaps we should trigger storms in the Gap, he thought. The old minefields were long gone, but he was sure his people could improvise something. They’d either have to go the long way around or simply give up completely.
He dismissed the thought with a gesture of irritation. The intelligence they’d been given was too good. It was pretty much perfect. Too perfect. The convoy’s path glowed on the display, set in stone . . . except it wasn’t set in stone. There was nothing stopping the convoy’s CO from changing course as soon as the flotilla entered hyperspace. The Theocracy would have been furious if someone as insignificant as a convoy CO had dared to change course, or do anything that deviated in the slightest from his orders, but the Commonwealth had always given its people a high degree of discretion. Admiral Zaskar had envied their freedom, once upon a time. How many battles had been lost because the Theocracy’s commanders hadn’t been allowed to change their dispositions? How many ships had been destroyed because their captains hadn’t been allowed to withdraw when the battle was clearly lost?
“Admiral, we need to do this,” Moses said. “If we can make them hurt, just once . . .”
“It needs to be considered carefully,” Admiral Zaskar said. He had the nasty feeling he’d been trapped. Moses thought it was a good idea, damn him. The cleric wasn’t as . . . unthinkingly stubborn as some of his fellows, but his knowledge of military matters was almost nil, making his freedom to override a genuine commanding officer all the more irritating. “We might be throwing our entire fleet away on a fool’s errand.”
He glared at Askew, who merely looked back at him blandly. The intelligence was good—too good. Admiral Zaskar would have accepted a flight path, but not precise details on just where and when the enemy convoy would drop out of hyperspace. Even the Theocracy reluctantly accepted just how hard it could be to stick to a precise timetable while crossing the interstellar void. It felt like a trap. And yet, if he set an ambush, he would have plenty of time to back off if a fleet appeared to be waiting for him. He could get his ships to the waypoint long before any enemy forces could arrive.
Particularly with their ships running around trying to catch us, he thought. We are keeping them hopping.
“But God has given us a clear shot at them,” Moses said eagerly. “It would be a sin to waste it.”
Yeah, Admiral Zaskar thought. And you’d raise the crews against me if I let it pass.
He felt another flicker of envy for his enemy counterparts. He’d heard that the Royal Navy’s commanding officers had absolute authority over their ships. They didn’t have anyone contradicting them in public.
That is going to have to change, he told himself firmly. But not until we’re well away from here.
“We can certainly prepare an ambush,” he temporized. “But I’d like a clear picture of wh
ere the intelligence actually came from.”
“I was given to understand that my superiors had a spy somewhere on Tyre,” Askew said, as if it were a very minor matter indeed. “But you’ll understand I was not given the details.”
Admiral Zaskar nodded, crossly. Of course Askew wouldn’t have been given any details. A man with his training and implants would not talk easily, but . . . he might be made to talk anyway. His implants were presumably designed to kill Askew if they sensed he was being interrogated, yet . . . someone might just manage to get around them. Admiral Zaskar was too aware of the Commonwealth’s technological skill to dismiss the possibility. Askew wouldn’t have been told anything more than what he needed to know.
But, obviously, that made it hard to judge the value of what they’d been given.
“We’ll discuss the matter,” he said, gesturing to the door. “And we’ll tell you our decision later.”
“As you wish,” Askew said, standing. If the sudden dismissal perturbed him, he didn’t show it. “I will be in my quarters.”
He walked out of the hatch, which hissed closed behind him. Admiral Zaskar watched him go, feeling conflicted. Askew had had ample opportunity to betray them over the last few months if he wished. There was no reason to think that Askew was being dishonest, this time. But he couldn’t help thinking that the data in front of him, the data Askew had given them, was simply too good to be true. Askew or his superiors could have been tricked. And they, in perfect innocence, would hurl Admiral Zaskar and his fleet into the fire.
“This is too good an opportunity to miss,” Moses said firmly. “Admiral, we have to take it.”
Admiral Zaskar sighed. “And what if it’s a trick? A trap?”
“God is with us,” Moses said. “We will not be deceived as long as we put our faith in Him.”
“God is with us,” Admiral Zaskar echoed.
He resisted the urge to sigh again. He understood just how much the cleric needed to cling to his faith, but . . . he’d seen enough to wonder if God was truly on their side. They’d lost the war. Admiral Zaskar had no illusions about himself. He was not the perfect, god-fearing warrior of propaganda. Indeed, there were times when he’d even come to doubt the existence of God. It wasn’t something he could share with his cleric, not even now. He had no doubt Moses would prescribe something nastier than a scourging.
Debt of Honor (The Embers of War) Page 25