“They can’t do that,” Tanya said.
“It’s martial law,” Kat told her. “As I said, all civil liberties have been suspended.”
“Which will really do wonders for the economy,” William muttered. Martial law had also been declared when the war broke out, making life much harder for the average citizen. Something as simple as getting to work became a great deal more difficult when aircars were grounded and public transport shut down. “Kat . . . how long is this going to last?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “And the news reports are so vague as to be unreadable.”
Tanya huffed rudely. “We’ll leave immediately, if you don’t mind,” she said. “And we’ll find a hotel . . .”
“We’ll return to the ship,” William said. He ignored the betrayed look she sent him, as if she’d expected him to back her up. She’d been on Tyre during the war. She should know not to play games during martial law. They were lucky they were even being allowed off the ship. “Thank you for your assistance, Kat.”
She gave him a wan smile. “You’re welcome, William,” she said. “Your shuttle is already waiting for you. Good luck.”
Tanya spluttered in outrage as they left Kat’s quarters and headed down to the airlock. William ignored her, taking his datapad from his belt and checking for updates. There was no outgoing channel—it seemed that no one on the ship was permitted to talk to anyone—but a whole collection of messages from various news services crashed into his datapad as soon as he identified himself. The news was wholly bad. Mass unemployment, riots on the streets, rumors of everything from treason to alien invasions . . . He shook his head in disbelief. Had the whole world gone crazy?
He undocked from Violence, set the autopilot to take them to the nearest shipyard, and started to read the reports more carefully. Almost nothing seemed to be confirmed, not even the destruction of the Theocratic Navy, but so many contradictory rumors abounded that it was impossible to tell what was true. Was the king going to be impeached? Or were his political supporters going to push back hard? Or . . . It was madness. Protest marches right across the Commonwealth, for and against the king; rioters on the streets of Tyre, despite the best efforts of the planetary police. Some in Parliament were even calling to send in the army.
This is not going to end well, he thought. He had the uneasy feeling about the whole crisis. And where will it end?
Kat paced the CIC, torn between relief and irritation that no one had tried to get in touch with her. Violence and her crew, and the entire squadron, seemed to be hanging in limbo, neither part of the planetary defense network nor completely detached from it. The communications lockdown was in full effect. No one, save for Kat herself, could send a message off the ship . . . and even she couldn’t send a message very far. She couldn’t talk to anyone . . .
. . . and none of the reports she’d read were very reassuring. There had been riots, there had been protests, there had been threats to everyone from the lowest MP to the king himself . . . and so many rumors had leaked out that the truth was overshadowed by the lies. Too many problems were bursting into the open for anyone, even the king, to handle them; too many tensions that had been buried for decades were exploding under their feet. The planet seemed doomed to go through a long period of civil unrest.
She turned her attention to the display. Home Fleet was concentrated, although God alone knew what it was concentrated against; it floated in orbit around the moon, ready to respond to any crisis. Tyre itself was ringed with Planetary Defense’s battlestations, gunboats flittering to and fro as if they expected trouble at any moment. Kat felt her heart sink as she assessed the battlestations. They were Parliament’s, not the king’s. Whoever was behind the whole affair might already be planning to seize them and take control of the high orbitals.
And taking them back would be damn near impossible, she thought. Tyre was the most heavily defended world in explored space. Even Home Fleet would have problems punching through the defenses.
She turned as Kitty’s console bleeped. “Admiral, the Admiralty is calling you on a secure channel,” Kitty said. “The header insists you have to take the call in private.”
“Route it into my office,” Kat ordered.
She stepped through the hatch, silently relieved that something was finally happening. The hatch hissed closed behind her, plunging the compartment into silence. Kat walked across to her desk, pressing her finger against the scanner as she sat down. A moment later, Grand Admiral Tobias Vaughn’s face appeared in front of her. He looked older than she remembered, old and fatigued and worn out. He’d been in the navy longer than she’d been alive.
And he was the previous king’s client too, Kat reminded herself. And he rose high because of the king’s patronage.
“Admiral Falcone,” Vaughn said. His voice was weary. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kat said. She reminded herself that it was late evening on Tyre. Starship lag was working in her favor. “It’s good to see you too.”
“Your report has set off shockwaves, despite our best efforts,” Vaughn said. “Enough of it leaked out to make life difficult for all concerned.”
Kat kept her face blank. That wasn’t her fault. She’d upheld the communications embargo as soon as it had been ordered. As far as she knew, no one back in the liberated sector knew that the enemy fleet had been destroyed. Only a handful of people on her ship knew what else had been found at the enemy base. And they certainly couldn’t have sent any message while the fleet had been in hyperspace. No, it hadn’t been her fault. Someone in the palace had blabbed.
Which is no surprise, she thought. Everyone who is anyone has their own little network of spies.
“I understand that, sir,” she said calmly. “How may I be of service?”
“It is not clear if we will have time to start a reasoned and reasonable investigation into the matter,” Vaughn said. “Preliminary investigations have made it clear that almost everyone who served at Razwhana Depot has been reported dead. They may well be dead.”
Kat stared. “What? All of them?”
“The depot only had a skeleton crew,” Vaughn pointed out. “At its height, we only ever assigned thirty crewmen, all reservists deemed too unfit for service on more . . . active . . . bases. There were fifteen men and women assigned to the depot when the supplies were destroyed, then the depot itself shut down. All of them have been reported dead.”
“But if someone can fiddle the records,” Kat said, “they may have simply assumed other identities.”
“Quite,” Vaughn said. “Or they were killed, but not at their reported places of death. Their bodies were certainly never found.” He rubbed his forehead. “But that isn’t a problem right now, Admiral,” he said. “We need you to do something for us, quietly.”
Kat frowned. William’s words rang in her ears. “What do you want?”
If Vaughn noticed her tone, he gave no sign. “There have been a number of threats against Princess Drusilla,” he said. “We’d like to send her to your ship for safekeeping. Keep her safe until the situation stabilizes.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Right now?” Vaughn looked her in the eye. “It’s worse than anything I’ve ever seen.”
“Very well,” Kat said. She’d never really liked Princess Drusilla, but she could put up with her company. “I’ll have quarters prepared for her.”
“She’ll be with you in a couple of hours,” Vaughn said. “And . . . thank you.” He let out a long breath. “Tomorrow, they’re going to vote on impeaching the king,” he added. “And then . . . we will see.”
Kat swallowed, hard. “I understand.”
“I’d be surprised if you did,” Vaughn said. “We’re in uncharted waters, Katherine. And who knows what will happen next?”
Peter stood at the window, staring out over the shadowed city. The streetlights had been turned off, as had the lights illuminating the palace and the other magnificent buildi
ngs in the center of town. Martial law had been declared, and everyone had been warned to keep their shutters down, plunging the city further into darkness. The troops on the streets wouldn’t hesitate to enforce the rules with as much force as necessary. It was a return to the darkest days of the war.
And we’re fighting ourselves, he thought numbly. There’s no external enemy any longer.
It was a bitter thought. If anything, the last week had been worse than he’d expected. The torrent of layoffs had well and truly begun, throwing hundreds of thousands of people out of work. They’d responded badly, taking to the streets and smashing things . . . His security staff had even had to clamp down on workplace violence. Workplace violence! It had been largely unknown, a week ago. The combination of a booming economy and a meritocracy had kept the vast majority of his workers happy. But now . . . now, nothing could keep them happy. They all suspected their jobs were on the line.
And many of them are right, he told himself curtly. The workers earmarked for layoff were not, by and large, low-performers. Nor were they the type of people who simply refused to fit in. No, they were merely unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We fire so many in hopes of keeping the rest.
But that simple truth didn’t make it any easier for the newly unemployed to take . . .
A light darted over the city, heading north. He eyed it for a long moment, wondering what it was. A police skimmer? An aircar with special permission to fly in the restricted airspace surrounding the city? A shuttle? Or something else? He felt a flicker of envy for the pilot, flying away from his troubles. Peter couldn’t leave, not unless he wanted to abandon his family for good.
There was a knock on the door. Peter didn’t bother to turn around. “Enter!”
He saw Yasmeena’s reflection in the window as she approached. “Your Grace, I have continued to try to get a message to HMS Violence,” she said. “However there’s a block on all personal messages. I believe our messages remain languishing in the buffer.”
Peter nodded. He’d been surprised when Violence and his sister returned to the system. They must have pushed their drives to the limit to get back so quickly if they’d been on the far side of the occupied sector when they destroyed the Theocratic fleet. But they had . . . and he couldn’t help finding that ominous. The king presumably had some reason for calling them back home.
Kat won’t side with him, he told himself firmly. But, in truth, he was no longer sure that was true. He and Kat had never really been friends. Perhaps, if they’d been closer, he could have ensured that she was more aware of the political realities behind her appointment to the Privy Council. Or . . . He sighed to himself. Everything he’d done had seemed logical at the time but had led to crisis. She won’t turn against the family.
He sighed, again. Kat had turned against the family. Maybe not directly, maybe not to the point of working against the family’s interests, but she had committed herself to the navy and would put the navy first. She’d made that clear when they’d talked. And he understood all too well. Kat had been born to wealth and privilege, but she’d never had a chance at real power. He supposed he should be relieved she’d made something of her life. So many others did not.
“It’s late,” Yasmeena said. “Your Grace, you should be in bed.”
Peter glanced at his wristcom. “Very well,” he said. “But I won’t sleep well until tomorrow.”
His thoughts were bleak. And then we’ll see if we have enough power, in votes and force, to impeach a king.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
* * *
TYRE
Peter could feel the tension in the air as his aircar landed neatly on top of the Houses of Parliament. Armed guards were clearly visible on the streets, while police skimmers and military helicopters patrolled the air. The protesters had been dispersed; some forced to flee into the suburbs, some arrested and transported to detention camps. It would take months, if not years, to sort the guilty from the innocent. A line had been crossed. Tyre had never had to repress its own citizens before.
We had a nice planet once, he thought sourly. The next wave of layoffs was lurking at the back of his mind, mocking him. He’d have to give the order to terminate the next group soon, perhaps by the end of the day. What happened to us?
He stepped out of the aircar and nodded politely to the two guards. Parliamentary Security was on the alert, its officers wearing body armor and carrying heavy weapons. His own guards accompanied him as he walked through the door and down the long corridor towards the parliamentary chamber. It felt wrong, somehow, to be shadowed by armed guards in Parliament. Parliament was supposed to be safe.
The chamber was oddly quiet when he entered, MPs and lords talking in hushed voices. He could feel their tension, hanging in the air like a shroud. Too much had leaked out over the past couple of weeks for him to feel confident they could ram the impeachment bill through before the king could rally his supporters and counterattack. Whispers already circulated that someone in a very high place had committed treason. It might not be the king.
Duke Rudbek caught Peter’s eye as he sat down. “There’s been no word from the king,” he muttered as if the privacy fields wouldn’t keep their words to themselves. “But I’ve heard rumors that the government has been meeting in emergency session.”
Peter leaned over slightly. “What about our people? Are they in place?”
“Mostly,” Duke Rudbek said. “But you know how chancy it will become if all hell breaks loose.”
“We’ve never had to do this before,” Peter reminded him. “God alone knows what is about to happen.”
He settled back in his chair and surveyed the room. By law, certain votes could not be cast by proxy, not even over a secure telecommunications network. They had to be in the Houses of Parliament if they were voting to impeach anyone, from the lowest MP to the king himself. Peter had no idea what his great-great-grandfather had been thinking when he’d passed that law, but it had clearly been a mistake. Parliament could no longer be reckoned safe. Too many angry people were milling through the city despite the military and police presence. Some might start heading back towards Parliament too.
At least that gives us a slight edge, he thought. A number of neutral or opposition MPs had chosen to send proxies. They’d effectively given up their vote. But will it be enough to impeach the king?
His heart started to race. They were committed now, committed in a way they hadn’t been a month ago. If they tried and failed to impeach Hadrian, their positions would be weakened beyond repair. Peter had no doubt that the family council would remove him as soon as possible. They’d have no choice, not if they wanted to mend fences with the monarch. A king who survived an attempt to impeach him would, perversely, be in a far stronger position, if only because his enemies would be in disarray. And if the affair turned violent . . .
He studied the MPs as they took their seats, their faces grim. There had been no official announcement of what was about to happen, but he was sure they knew what was coming. A number would vote to impeach, a number would vote against impeachment . . . How many of them would vote in his favor? He and the others had called in every favor they could to stack the odds against the king, but it was hard to be sure. The MPs were all too aware that the king was popular, outside the chamber. Their rivals wouldn’t hesitate to accuse them of treason if that was required to unseat the sitting MPs and take their place. The bastards might even get away with it.
Particularly if we lose, Peter reflected. He glanced towards the king’s empty chair. By custom, the king had not been invited to the session. His prime minister, currently taking his seat, would speak for him. An MP who loses the king’s favor so openly will be lucky if he isn’t recalled within the week.
The speaker stood, slowly. He looked pale. Peter wondered, wryly, what the poor man was thinking. The speaker was meant to be neutral, but surely he had thoughts and opinions of his own. Did he support the king? Or did he support the oppositi
on? Or . . . was he terrified that he’d lose his post, either way? The losers would seek to extract some recompense for their defeat, particularly if they blamed the speaker. A cunning man in the speaker’s chair could slant the debate in a particular direction, if he was careful. But it would be hard for such a deed to remain unnoticed. Every word the speaker said was thoroughly scrutinized by every political analyst on the planet.
“A bill has been put before us,” the speaker said. His voice was hushed. Thankfully, the chamber was designed to project his words to the audience. “The bill . . .”
Arthur Hampshire stood. “On a point of order, Mr. Speaker!”
A low rumble ran through the chamber. Peter tensed, wondering what the prime minister thought he was doing. A point of order could delay matters for quite some time, particularly if made at the right time, but this one wouldn’t last for more than a few minutes. Had Hampshire blundered? Perhaps. Yet . . . he was too old a political hand to make such an overt mistake. What was he doing?
“I speak on behalf of the king,” Hampshire said. “And I claim the Royal Prerogative!”
Peter tensed. The Royal Prerogative? Was the king insistent on pushing them right to the brink? He did have considerable authority, but using it without Parliament’s approval was . . . not exactly illegal, merely frowned upon. Sure, the king’s representative did have the right to speak first, yet two centuries of precedent stood against it. And interrupting the bill being read . . .
“His Majesty’s investigators have discovered proof of treason,” Hampshire said. “Treason at the very heart of our government. Treason committed by men and women who wish to return to an era when Tyre was alone in the universe! We have solid proof that individuals within this room gave aid and comfort to the enemy, sacrificing millions of lives, in order to advance their agenda!”
Debt of Honor (The Embers of War) Page 39