Desperate Fire (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 4)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Admiral,” another operator said, “the supply officers report that they are running out of missiles.”

  “Have them distribute what they have,” Zaskar ordered impatiently. “And remind the crews that missiles are not to be wasted.”

  God is testing us, he reminded himself. And we will not let Him down.

  But despair hovered at the back of his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. Ahura Mazda had been savaged, even if the Tabernacle still held out. The enemy had utterly wrecked the system’s industrial base, crushed it beyond repair. There would be no more missiles, no more gunboats . . . no more superdreadnoughts. The remaining fragments of the Theocracy’s industrial base couldn’t even begin to meet the fleet’s requirements. And that meant?

  The end, he thought.

  He’d always prided himself on looking unpleasant truths in the face. His patrons had never approved, even though they’d found his honesty useful. And the unpleasant truth was that the Theocracy was doomed. Even if he won the coming battle, which wasn’t going to be easy, they would be naked and helpless when the Commonwealth mustered another offensive. The enemy would put a second fleet through the Gap and smash the remainder of his ships before the Theocracy had a chance to rebuild.

  And yet, what choice did he have?

  His family was down on the surface, held hostage. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what would happen to them if he disobeyed orders. Better to throw his fleet into the fire than risk losing his family. And who knew? Maybe the Lord Cleric was right. God would grant them victory if they proved themselves worthy.

  He keyed the display, flicking through long-term plans outlined by the tactical officers belowdecks. The Theocracy would return to the offensive, crush the Commonwealth, and occupy its worlds. Red arrows led all the way to Tyre and beyond, showing how the Theocracy would stamp its will on the entire universe. But he knew they were nothing more than fantasy, nothing more than sheer wishful thinking. The Theocracy would be lucky if it managed to preserve Ahura Mazda, let alone the other worlds under its sway.

  It had been a mistake to launch the war, he thought.

  His minders would kill him, he knew, if he dared express such a thought out loud. The Theocracy had a manifest destiny, they would say, to reshape the entire universe. Everyone had known the war was inevitable, that the Commonwealth could not be allowed a chance to influence and subvert the occupied worlds. But the decision to go to war had doomed the Theocracy. They’d finally picked a fight with someone bigger than themselves, after decades of easy victories. His superiors had learned nothing from invading worlds that lacked even a single weapons platform to defend themselves.

  Zaskar closed his eyes for a long moment, then switched the tactical display back to the fleet setting. The ships hung in the darkness, worker bees and fleet tenders moving from superdreadnought to superdreadnought, parceling out missile supplies and spare parts to where they were most needed. The armada was, in many ways, the most powerful fleet the Theocracy had ever assembled, yet it was barely a match for its enemy. And too many of its ships were in poor condition. His government had also made a major error, perhaps, in not training more engineers.

  Definitely another mistake, he thought numbly.

  He had grown up a child of privilege. He’d long since come to terms with the Theocracy’s decision to keep its population in ignorance. A thinking population might imagine all sorts of things, like questioning the Theocracy’s right to rule. But such governance ensured that there was only a limited supply of trained engineers. The Theocrats were even short of men who could do little more than remove a faulty component and replace it with a new one. And when they’d needed to expand, they’d discovered that they simply didn’t have the manpower. His fleet was suffering for sheer lack of maintenance.

  And we will never have the chance to correct our mistake, he thought. And even if we do . . .

  He shook his head slowly. The Theocracy was too rigid to survive. If it wanted to survive, it would have to change . . . and change would eventually bring the whole system tumbling down. And who knew what would happen then?

  “Admiral, a courier boat just arrived from Ahura Mazda,” a third operator said. “The Tabernacle wants us to be ready to move in five days.”

  “Understood,” Zaskar said. He saw no point in expressing his doubts. Five days wouldn’t give him time to even begin to tackle his problems. “I’m sure we can move on command.”

  “The latest reports from the front are clear,” Inquisitor Samuilu said. He nodded towards the display. “The enemy is massing for a drive on us.”

  “It looks that way,” Speaker Nehemiah agreed dryly. He had a feeling that the situation was worse than Samuilu knew. There was a mindless optimism to some of the reports that amused him. Thousands of unbelievers killed? Really? “They’ll be plunging straight into your defense line.”

  “Yes,” Lord Cleric Eliseus agreed. “And our soldiers stand ready to resist them.”

  There won’t be much of a planet left, afterwards, Nehemiah thought. The Inquisitors had granted permission for the defenders to use nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons. He’d tried to talk them out of using the latter two, if only because the defenders were ill prepared to cope with them, but he’d failed to convince Samuilu not to deploy everything in his arsenal. And the invaders will start using their own nukes if they decide it’s the only way to get to us.

  “And the fleet is bracing itself for the final battle,” Samuilu said. “But it is clear that we are losing the war.”

  Nehemiah’s head jerked up sharply. Samuilu had never admitted that the Theocracy was losing the war—had lost the war, to all intents and purposes. He’d remained optimistic, utterly convinced that God would grant them victory, even after Commonwealth boots had landed on Ahura Mazda itself. But now . . . he’d changed his mind. Somehow, Nehemiah didn’t find that very reassuring.

  “Too many of our people have betrayed us,” Lord Cleric Eliseus rumbled. “They will need to be purged.”

  “They’re behind enemy lines,” Nehemiah reminded him. Junayd, damn him, had proved alarmingly effective. Too many soldiers had deserted to the enemy; too many officers and civil servants had crossed the lines, no doubt seeking further employment in the postwar universe. And the Inquisition’s purges had only made matters worse. “We can’t get to them.”

  “Yes, we can,” Samuilu said. “We can get the remainder of the true believers out, then destroy the entire planet after we leave. The unbelievers will burn with the traitors.”

  Nehemiah felt his mouth drop open. “Are you—?”

  He swallowed hard. Samuilu was mad. Somehow, he’d come up with a way to rationalize his flight from Ahura Mazda—and blow up the entire planet in a final gesture of spite. Lord Cleric Eliseus couldn’t have come up with it, Nehemiah thought. But whoever had worked out the plan didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the planet was doomed.

  Along with everyone on it, he thought.

  He opened his suddenly dry mouth. “How?”

  “We have the last of the antimatter,” Samuilu reminded him. “When the Tabernacle is on the verge of falling, we will send a signal to the storage depot. The explosion will shatter the entire planet.”

  Nehemiah wasn’t sure if there was enough antimatter left to shatter an entire planet, but it hardly mattered. A chunk of antimatter no larger than his fist would be enough to do real damage to Ahura Mazda. The civilians who weren’t killed in the blast would die soon afterwards, as clouds of radiation swept across their homeworld. Hebrides, but on a much larger scale. And no one, absolutely no one, was going to come to their rescue. The entire population would perish.

  He looked from one to the other, trying to see a hint of doubt about the plan. But neither Samuilu nor Eliseus showed any hint of concern. They were both mad, both determined to lash out even as they died. The Theocracy would die with them too. There was no way Admiral Zaskar’s fleet would be allowed to escape, not after the final atrocity
. The Commonwealth would search the entire galaxy for them. No colony world would survive long enough to rebuild its fleets and go on the offensive.

  And I used to be in charge, he thought. If I had chosen otherwise . . .

  But he knew he’d had no choice. The Theocrats’ very ethos demanded expansion. They couldn’t allow themselves to be confined by the Commonwealth, their borders weakening as news sneaked through the blockade and into civilian ears. He’d supported the war, but even if he’d had his doubts he couldn’t have stopped it. He would have been removed from power if he’d tried to keep the Theocracy from going to war.

  And now he was trapped in the Tabernacle, under the control of a pair of madmen, waiting helplessly for the end of the world.

  They won’t take me with them, he told himself. And it won’t be long before they kill me anyway.

  He turned his gaze to the monitors. Men, dozens of men, hanging from ropes, convicted of attempted desertion or treason; two women, caught outside their homes, flogged so hard that their backs were covered in bloody scars. And children, male children, being given guns and taught how to use them. They’d be killed in their first battle, but they might just slow the Commonwealth down for a few minutes. Or so he’d been told. The Theocracy, he thought grimly, was steadily eating its own.

  “They’re closing in on a POW camp,” Samuilu commented. “The prisoners cannot be allowed to survive.”

  Nehemiah looked up. He’d lost track of the conversation. But it didn’t matter. “Will they survive if they are rescued?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Samuilu said. “All that matters is that they never see home again.”

  Nehemiah rose. “You can handle it,” he said. “I have to go.”

  He half expected to be yanked back as he walked towards the door, or to be grabbed by the guards outside, but nothing happened as he made his way back towards his quarters. There were no guards on duty outside his door, not even an Inquisitor. An unsubtle insult, a way of telling him that his life was no longer worth protecting . . . his life and those of his wives and children.

  They already took my sons, he thought as he opened the door and stepped inside. And soon they will take my wives and daughters, too.

  He was surprised, in all honesty, that they hadn’t taken his daughters already. Drusilla had managed to steal an entire freighter, although that had largely been blamed on her bodyguards. A woman? Steal a freighter? She shouldn’t even have known there was a world outside the female quarters. But Nehemiah couldn’t help feeling an odd flicker of pride in his daughter. He had no doubt, whatever he had said in public, that Drusilla had planned it herself. She’d had a better education, thanks to him, than most of her male counterparts.

  Shaking his head, he rose and walked towards the female quarters. If all he could do was prepare himself for death, he could start by saying good-bye to his family. And then, perhaps, find a way to get a message out. But, in truth, he had no idea how to proceed. He had never had to do anything for himself since he’d grown to adulthood. And now he was as helpless as a newborn.

  Of course they don’t have guards on my door, he thought sourly. Where would I go?

  If there was one thing Aeliana had learned from her mothers and father, it was that it was better not to ask questions. Her father and his sister-wives reacted badly to any show of female intelligence, particularly after Drusilla had managed to somehow escape their quarters and vanish completely. Aeliana envied her half sister for her escape, even though her father had made it clear that Drusilla had gone beyond his protection. But she’d had no choice. Drusilla had been on the verge of being married when she’d fled.

  Aeliana loved her father, but she had no illusions about him. She’d been sneaking into the male quarters—and beyond—for years. His terminal didn’t have a password, but it did have a dozen programs to help her learn how to use it. She’d discovered the awful fate that lay in wait for Drusilla simply by reading her father’s files. Her rebellious half sister would be brain-burned if she didn’t learn to bow her head and accept her place in life. After that, Aeliana had started planning her own escape.

  She’d discovered more than once that she could easily sneak around the Tabernacle as long as she wore male clothes and a cap. No one looked twice at a young boy who might easily be the son of a powerful man. Drusilla had been too well developed to pass for a young man, but Aeliana was more boyish. A couple of pieces of paperwork and a willingness to lie when necessary completed the disguise. Indeed, she’d seriously considered sneaking all the way out and simply vanishing into the streets. As long as she looked like a man, no one would be trying to rape her or force her back into her home. But now . . .

  She watched her father finally go to sleep, then hurried to her room to don her clothes. Getting the first set had been hard—she’d resorted to bribing her brother—but afterwards, it had been simple to get newer clothes as time went by. Her father had been unable to figure out how to get a message to the enemy lines, but she had a plan. And she was damned if she was staying in the Tabernacle any longer. Rumor had it that Eliseus wanted her for his bride, and she had no intention of marrying an old man. Eliseus had been around for decades, if not centuries.

  But father can no longer say no, she thought as she strode through the door. She’d practiced walking like a man until there was nothing about her stride that said woman. The old wretch can have me whenever he wants me.

  The thought made her shudder as she walked down the corridor, careful to keep her head up high. Drusilla had been threatened with being brain-burned; Aeliana had no doubt that she, too, would get the same treatment if she refused to behave. And there was no way to avoid it if she stayed home. Either she played the obedient wife or she would be warped and twisted into a brainless animal who couldn’t even string two words together.

  And if father is right, she told herself, we all might be about to die.

  The guards at the gates barely glanced at her papers before waving her out, nodding towards the streets outside the Tabernacle. Darkness was already falling, but her papers gave her clearance to be out after curfew. The patrollers should check her papers and then let her go without delay. However, if they tried to search her, they’d discover the truth. A woman in male clothing would be whipped, if she were lucky.

  God will provide, she thought as she heard gunshots and explosions in the distance. Her father had told her the streets were safe, but she knew he’d been lying. She’d read too many of his reports. And if it is His will I get through, I’ll get through.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Commodore,” Lucy said, “Commodore McElney has arrived.”

  Captain McElney, Kat translated mentally. William had been given a courtesy promotion as soon as he’d boarded Queen Elizabeth. There could only ever be one captain on a ship. And I don’t want to see him.

  She closed her eyes in bitter pain. Her father was dead. The man who’d sired her, who’d given her a life well above the ordinary, who’d helped her and taught her and disciplined her, was dead. Her father was dead. She couldn’t quite believe it. He’d always been there for her, even when she’d been determined to stand on her own two feet. And now he was gone.

  He shouldn’t have died, she thought numbly, unable to move. Duke Lucas should have lived for decades more, thanks to his genetic enhancements. They killed him.

  She stared up at the display, shaking her head. Her father was dead. The preliminary reports had claimed that a team of sleeper agents, armed with a MANPAD, had managed to down his aircar with an HVM. How had they known where he was going? How had they managed to get into place to take the shot? Where had the damn gunships been? The Theocracy had killed her father. She knew it. They’d managed to keep a sleeper team under cover long enough to take the perfect shot.

  “Commodore,” Lucy repeated. “Commodore—”

  “I know,” Kat said harshly. She forced herself to sit upright. She wasn’t the only one mourning a loss. “Show him in, then bring us
both coffee.”

  She rose and glared at her face in the mirror. Her expression looked so dark that the nasty part of her mind wondered why the mirror hadn’t cracked. She heard the hatch open, but kept her eyes on the mirror, trying to control herself. There was no way she could mourn her father properly until after the war.

  “Kat,” William said quietly. “I am truly sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too,” Kat said. She wasn’t sure if she was sorry about her father, or Thunderchild, or both. Losing a second ship so quickly after the first wouldn’t look good on William’s record. “I should have sent you out with an entire squadron.”

  She cursed herself. The enemy was watching her. Her long-range sensors had picked up enough proof that cloaked enemy ships were still watching the system to make her paranoid. She’d sent Thunderchild out alone because she hadn’t suspected the ship would be ambushed, not when the Theocracy desperately needed to preserve its strength. But she’d made a mistake. Cold logic suggested otherwise, suggested that the trade had been squarely in the Commonwealth’s favor, yet her emotions told her she’d screwed up. Losing William would have been an absolute disaster.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” William said. He sat down on the sofa and took the mug of coffee Lucy offered him. “And your father’s death wasn’t your fault either.”

  “I know that,” Kat said. She sipped her own coffee. Lucy must have warned him before he’d walked into her cabin. “But I don’t believe it.”

  She looked down at her cup for a long moment. “What did the techs say about Thunderchild?”