He felt his expression darken as the display filled with static. Sensor disrupters were relatively rare, if only because it was normally easy to locate and destroy them. They bought time for whoever had deployed them, sure, but only a few minutes. Here, though . . . he had to admit they might serve a useful purpose. It was suddenly very hard to track the fleeing freighters, let alone destroy them. His ships might waste their time trying to hunt down and destroy a flotilla of sensor ghosts.
“Launch probes of our own,” he ordered. “And redirect missiles to take out the sensor disrupters . . .”
“Admiral,” the tactical officer interrupted, his voice filled with alarm. “They’re charging us!”
“Prepare to intercept,” Admiral Zaskar snapped. Nineteen warships were racing towards his position, firing as they came. The two fleets were converging with terrifying speed. He silently saluted his enemy’s bravery, even though he knew that there was no way he could replenish his losses. “Fire at will.”
He braced himself as the enemy ships came closer, two falling out of formation and vanishing from the display. They were expending their fire on his superdreadnoughts, rather than his smaller ships; he acknowledged their cunning, even as he cursed it. A civilian might count the number of ships destroyed, but losing even one of his superdreadnoughts would cut his effective firepower in half. The Commonwealth could sacrifice the entire flotilla for one of his superdreadnoughts and still come out ahead.
In hindsight, he honestly wondered why the Tabernacle had launched the war. Had they simply never realized the vast potential of the Commonwealth’s industrial base?
“They’re entering energy weapons range now,” the tactical officer reported. “Firing . . . now!”
Admiral Zaskar gritted his teeth. The enemy ships were coming alarmingly close . . .
“Direct hits, decks five through seven,” Commander Hanford reported. “Damage control teams are on the way.”
Jackie looked at the display and knew it was useless. Invincible’s drive field was already starting to collapse. She’d lost too many drives in the last barrage to keep the field operational long enough to get out of the enemy’s range. Most of the squadron would survive, she was sure, along with the remaining freighters, but not her. She didn’t even have time to order her crew to abandon ship.
“Point us straight at the nearest superdreadnought,” she ordered. They should have enough power left to do that. “And then reroute all remaining power into the shields.”
“Aye, Captain.”
At least I got to die on a command deck, Jackie thought. We . . .
“Admiral,” the tactical officer said. “Faithful One . . .”
Admiral Zaskar swore out loud as the enemy battlecruiser slammed into the superdreadnought, both ships vanishing in a colossal explosion. Faithful One had survived a dozen skirmishes with enemy superdreadnoughts, only to be destroyed by a battlecruiser . . . It was not to be borne. But it was too late. His fleet had taken a beating . . . No, it had been crippled. They’d need weeks, if not months, to do what few repairs they could.
And Askew and his backers might not be able to replace the missiles we expended, he thought grimly. We burned up two-thirds of our remaining stock.
He looked at the display, but he already knew that the enemy sacrifice had not been in vain. The remainder of the enemy warships were already out of range, while their freighters were going dark or running towards the planet. Half of them were probably sensor ghosts, he thought, making their presence a little too obvious. In hindsight, he should have fired one barrage and then retreated at high speed, thus saving his fleet from losing a third of its capital ships.
“Order the fleet to open vortexes and retreat to the first waypoint,” he said. The cleric would complain, but there was nothing to be gained by prolonging the engagement. Enemy reinforcements would be on their way. “And then we’ll go home.”
He allowed himself a smile of smug satisfaction as the fleet broke off the engagement and returned to hyperspace. Losing the superdreadnought and its crew had hurt, he couldn’t deny that, but he’d given the enemy a real bloody nose. And then . . . He felt his smile grow wider. If he increased the tempo of attacks, hitting worlds right across the sector, he might just manage to convince the Commonwealth that it was going to lose. Cold logic would suggest otherwise, but the Commonwealth didn’t seem to be governed by logic. Their system was frankly incomprehensible to him. He was mildly surprised they hadn’t turned Ahura Mazda into a radioactive desert by now.
They can’t ignore us any longer, he thought. A dull quiver ran through the superdreadnought as she picked up speed. If any enemy ships had the presence of mind to try to track the retreating fleet, they’d find it a difficult task. And as long as they can’t find us, we can jab at them at will.
CHAPTER THIRTY
* * *
TYRE
All this room needs, Peter thought as the guests were ushered into the conference room, is dim lights and someone smoking in the background.
He smiled at the thought, although what was happening wasn’t funny. News of the convoy disaster—the convoy slaughter, the media were calling it—had hit Tyre two days ago. The recriminations had been immense, drowned out only by accusations of everything from carelessness to betrayal and outright treason. Parliament had been cleared, twice, when MPs had practically started fighting on the chamber floor, while protest marches on the streets outside had turned into riots. Peter was old enough to remember the Putney Debates, back when the Commonwealth had been founded, but they had never been so bad. His security officers had reported that the volume of threats against MPs, the aristocracy, and the king himself had quadrupled. Peter had responded by reinforcing the armed guards around the mansion, corporate offices, and orbiting facilities.
Either someone fucked up badly, he told himself, or someone openly betrayed us.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought. In absolute terms, as Masterly and Masterly had made clear to him, the disaster wasn’t particularly serious. Losing the freighters was more of a problem than losing their cargos. But, from a political point of view, it was a nightmare. The average man on the streets didn’t care much about the populations of worlds that he’d never seen and probably never would. But the loss of an entire convoy was a far more serious matter.
He took the chair the usher offered him and surveyed the room. It was bland, save for a state portrait of the king in his military uniform and a small drinks cabinet, but that was in many ways a sign of the room’s true importance. The king and his government had no need to make a blatant show of wealth and power, not in his private hunting lodge. He couldn’t help feeling a thrill of excitement as the king entered, followed by the prime minister and Grand Admiral Tobias Vaughn. Parliament might debate and pass laws, but here, here was where the real decisions were made. Peter looked at Israel Harrison, his face blank, and Duke Rudbek, looking grim. Being here was clear proof that a man had made it. No one would be invited to such a meeting without being extremely powerful in political or economic terms.
And the prime minister started from the bottom, Peter reminded himself. No wonder he’s so devoted to the king.
The ushers moved around the table, distributing tea and biscuits, then retreated silently through the wooden doors. Peter glanced at his datapad, unsurprised to see that the link to the datanet, even the ultrasecure connection to the family datacores, had failed. The room was as secure as modern technology and human ingenuity could make it. Even a very basic recorder wouldn’t operate within a privacy field.
“I believe we can skip the formalities,” the king said. “Admiral?”
Tobias Vaughn cleared his throat. “We have recordings of the engagement from Maxwell’s Haven, as well as the surviving warships,” he said. “I can confirm that fifty-seven freighters and fourteen warships were either destroyed or heavily damaged during the brief encounter, although they took five enemy warships with them. The enemy fleet chose to retreat after losing one of their superdreadno
ughts . . .”
“Which is lucky for us, I suppose,” Harrison said sarcastically. “How did our ships wind up in that position again?”
Vaughn looked embarrassed. “We are still conducting an investigation,” he said. “It may have been simple misjudgment . . .”
“A misjudgment that led to the loss of more than seventy ships,” Harrison said. “What happened?”
“When the . . . emergency situation began, when the enemy ships revealed themselves, we designated emergence zones for worlds like Maxwell’s Haven and Ahura Mazda,” Vaughn said. “It was determined that any ships that returned to realspace outside the emergence zones would be considered hostile. You may recall that we took similar precautions during the war. In this case, the emergence zones ensured that the ships returned to realspace at a roughly predictable location. The enemy took advantage of it.”
Harrison glared. “And how did they know to have their ships be there on time?”
“The convoy made a layover at Cadiz, before crossing the Gap,” Vaughn reminded him, grimly. “It’s quite possible that someone at Cadiz passed on a message to the enemy commanders. The Theocrats spent decades, literally, building up a network of spies and informers right across their territory. I don’t believe that we have successfully rounded up or neutralized all of them.”
“The timing doesn’t work,” Harrison said. “My staff ran the numbers too, Admiral. They believe that the enemy fleet must have been alerted much earlier.”
I need to check with Kat, Peter thought as the Leader of the Opposition and the Grand Admiral locked eyes. She might be able to shed more light on the situation.
He scowled, inwardly. It might have been a mistake to let Kat run so free for so long. She’d devoted herself to the navy, not to the family. And that meant she couldn’t be relied upon to put the family first.
“They do not have access to a StarCom,” Harrison insisted. “If they did, Admiral, we would have tracked them down long ago.”
“But we have been emplacing StarComs ourselves, in threatened systems,” Vaughn countered. “They may have used our own system against us.”
“Which should not have been allowed,” Harrison said. “The investment alone . . .”
The king tapped the table, sharply. “The Inspectorate General will carry out a full investigation,” he said. “If there was a leak, if information was somehow relayed to the enemy ahead of time, we will track down and expose the source.”
“I insist on an open investigation, conducted by the TBI,” Harrison said. “We will not tolerate any attempt to sweep the truth under the rug.”
“Quite,” the king agreed. “But the TBI has been excessively politicized in recent years.”
“And the Inspectorate General has not?” Harrison met his eyes firmly. “This is not a matter that can be left in the navy’s hands.”
“A joint investigation, then,” the king said. “Right now, Mr. Harrison, we have other problems.”
“Quite,” Harrison said. “Let us leave aside the accusations of incompetence or treachery and concentrate on the facts. And the facts are that the situation in the Theocratic Sector is out of control. Nor can it be gotten back under control.”
“Admiral Falcone is doing the best she can with the forces under her command,” Vaughn said, firmly. “However, she needs heavy reinforcements to secure the sector and track down the enemy fleet.”
“Reinforcements that cannot be provided,” Harrison counted. “The entire sector is a money sink.”
The king looked displeased, but said nothing. Peter eyed him thoughtfully, wondering what he was thinking. His flagship program had run aground on simple bad luck, or treachery, and yet he was very calm. Perhaps, just perhaps, he’d realized that the whole crisis was an opportunity to back down without looking weak. Or he was simply keeping his cards close to his chest. There was nothing to be gained by arguing here.
And we’re meant to set policy for an entire kingdom, Peter reminded himself. Here, we can afford to forget politics and be blunt.
“We believe that we can force a withdrawal vote now and win,” Harrison added. “I assume you do not agree with us?”
“You may assume that,” the king said evenly.
Peter said nothing. His analysts hadn’t had time to conduct a proper assessment, but they’d been unsure if the convoy attack would fuel a demand for violent revenge, at the cost of sending more heavy ships to the occupied sector, or a wish for immediate withdrawal. There were simply too many factors to be considered for them to be certain about anything. And Harrison clearly had his doubts too. He would have pushed for the vote if he’d thought he had a better-than-even chance of winning.
Except that would have alienated the king permanently, Peter reminded himself. Both sides would be happier thrashing out a compromise.
“We wish to propose a compromise,” Harrison said calmly. “We will make one final investment in the sector, with the intention of helping the occupied worlds to defend themselves, then withdraw. Perhaps, depending on the situation, we will continue to hold Maxwell’s Haven, so we have naval bases at both sides of the Gap, but otherwise we will pull out completely. The locals can take care of their own defense.”
“The locals cannot take care of their own defense,” the king said. He didn’t sound angry, merely . . . dispassionate. “Even now, with one of the Theocratic superdreadnoughts little more than dust and ashes, the ships can still cause havoc.”
Peter eyed him. “We’ve been over this, again and again and again,” he said. “We simply cannot afford to defend them.”
“So you would leave them defenseless?” The king’s voice didn’t change. “Alone against their former masters?”
“We can station a superdreadnought squadron or two at Maxwell’s Haven,” Harrison pointed out. “If the Theocrats do show themselves, we can stomp on them.”
“Until you manage to get that squadron withdrawn too,” the king said. His eyes flickered around the room. “Can you even get consensus on this?”
Harrison smiled. “I believe that most of the Opposition will accept this compromise,” he said, briskly. “It won’t please anyone, including you and me, but . . . we will accept it.”
And it will be a step towards stemming the money flow, Peter thought. They’d planned the compromise to ensure that government funds flowed into the corporations, but he was grimly aware that the move wasn’t going to be enough. Like it or not, Tyre was in for some hard times. We will have to find other solutions.
“We must discuss the matter,” the king said. “Please, make yourselves at home.”
Peter watched him and the prime minister depart, then looked at Israel Harrison. The Leader of the Opposition seemed . . . distracted, as if he was being bothered by a far greater thought. It was hard to escape the impression that he’d failed in some way, even though he’d convinced his MPs to back the compromise. His position might be weakened because he hadn’t managed to get everything the Opposition wanted from the government.
But the government didn’t get everything it wanted either, Peter told himself. And that’s why the compromise will pass.
He leaned back in his comfortable chair. The room was supposed to be secure—his datapad had picked up four different privacy fields—but he knew better than to take that for granted. His father had shown him just how easy it was to subvert a privacy field, if you happened to be the one who’d set it up. The king’s security officers might be recording every word spoken. Peter wouldn’t feel safe talking openly until he got back to his mansion.
And we’re going to have to make some hard decisions soon, he thought. The compromise will slow the bleeding, and it might win us time to put a more reasonable solution into place, but the underlying problem is not going to go away in a hurry.
He sighed. The convoy disaster had merely ratcheted up a war of words that had been raging for the last two months. Accusations of everything from incompetence to treachery had been exchanged by both sides, wi
th attitudes hardening as moderates were driven to one side or the other. It was worse on the streets, he knew; there had always been problems with immigration, but he’d thought they were under control. Now . . . now, there had been attacks on immigrants and refugees that had left helpless men and women bleeding and broken. Rumors of worse were spreading at terrifying speed. The situation was out of control.
It felt like hours before the king returned, his face an expressionless mask. The prime minister followed him, looking like a dog who’d just been kicked. Peter wondered, sourly, just what they’d said to each other, in the privacy of their own chambers. Had the king decided to run roughshod over his servant’s advice? Or had he decided that the prime minister would make a suitable scapegoat for the king’s failings? Someone would have to take the fall if the king’s position was weakened . . .
“We will accept your compromise, based on the changing situation,” the king said. His voice was completely atonal. “A single major investment, geared towards defending the liberated worlds, then a phased withdrawal to Maxwell’s Haven. I trust your compromise meets with your approval.”
Harrison’s face flickered, just for a second. “It was our compromise, Your Majesty,” he said. “I daresay that not everyone will accept it calmly, but . . . it will suffice.”
The king frowned. “And will you then use the same argument to justify a withdrawal from the outermost worlds? And then the Commonwealth as a whole?”
Harrison didn’t rise to the bait. “We also intend to put forward a formal inquiry into precisely what mistakes were made over the last few months,” he added. “Even if treachery wasn’t involved, Your Majesty, it is clear that we became complacent. A number of officers may need to be . . . reassigned.”
“No doubt,” the king agreed blandly. “I’m sure a parliamentary inquiry, conducted in the full glare of publicity, will be as open and honest as you could wish.”
Ouch, Peter thought. His father had told him, once, that parliamentary inquiries existed to put a rubber stamp on the official version of events. He had no doubt that everyone involved would be fighting desperately for control of the inquiry, if only so they could either accept the official truth or find an alternate truth of their own. This will not end well.
Debt of Honor (The Embers of War) Page 29