“If you want to leave, let your section chief know and report to Shuttlebay A by 2100,” she concluded. “The marines will transport you somewhere safe, at least until we can arrange transport. If you want to stay, just remain in your place and resume your normal duties. I will be happy to have you.”
She stepped down and headed for the hatch, ignoring the chatter behind her. She’d meant what she’d said. She wasn’t going to try to influence them, even though she knew she could. The Royal Navy had been an all-volunteer force from day one, when there had been only a handful of destroyers to protect Tyre, and that wasn’t about to change now. Besides, trying to run a navy with conscripts was difficult and dangerous. The Theocrats had found that out the hard way.
And our crewmen are far from ignorant, she reminded herself. A handful of resentful crewers could do a great deal of damage if they decided to rebel instead of submit.
She winced at the thought. She’d never understood how the Theocratic navy had managed to function. There were limits to how far one could brutalize one’s crews before the starships started to fall apart, if the crew didn’t mutiny first. The Royal Navy had never made that mistake, thankfully. Tyre trusted its crewmen. But it also meant the crewmen couldn’t be press-ganged into fighting for either side. Better to lose half her crew than risk having a mutiny at the worst possible moment.
General Timothy Winters met her outside the shuttlebay. “Admiral, we’ve borrowed a colonist-carrier from Caledonia for the . . . ah . . . dissenters,” he said. “They should have no trouble getting home.”
“Good,” Kat said. A colonist-carrier had the great advantage of looking harmless. The defenders of Tyre might be jumpy after everything that had happened, but they were unlikely to slam an antimatter missile into a colonist-carrier, particularly one that was careful not to violate the planetary defense perimeter. “And your men?”
Winters looked impassive. His voice was disapproving. “We had a few desertions, Admiral. But most of my troops chose to remain.”
“It’s important they have a free choice, General,” Kat said, although she knew saying it would be pointless. She’d done her best to keep her thumb off the scales, but she was uneasily aware that there would be people who would feel pressured into making a choice that didn’t sit well with them. “We . . . This isn’t what we signed up for, when we took the oath.”
“No,” Winters said. “But that doesn’t mean we can change our minds when the shit hits the fan.”
Kat shrugged. The Theocracy had been a serious threat when she’d joined up. Everyone—at least, everyone with a gram of sense—had known that war was coming. But no one had seriously expected a civil war, not back then. It was unreasonable to expect everyone to be happy with the prospect of firing on their own people. She would have been seriously worried about anyone who was.
“Don’t pressure anyone,” she said. “Just . . . give them the same chance.”
She nodded, then walked down the corridor. The next few days were going to be very busy. She would have to reorganize everything from crew rotas to squadron formations, transferring officers and crewmen all over the fleet to fill the gaps in her roster. It was going to be a nightmare, even if she could pass most of the work to her subordinates. She wondered, sourly, what she’d do if her staffers chose to go home. She’d never really understood how important staff officers were until she’d been promoted. Someone had to turn the commanding officer’s orders into reality.
Two of the king’s personal guardsmen were on duty outside the VIP section. They checked her identity and scanned her for concealed weapons, then waved her through the hatch. Kat snorted at their paranoia, although she understood their concern. The superdreadnought was an alien environment, manned by crewmen who hadn’t been thoroughly vetted. Who knew how many crewmen might try to end the civil war by murdering the king?
“Admiral,” a quiet voice said as she passed through. A short man was standing by the king’s cabin, waiting for her. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Two
Caledonia
Kat didn’t know Sir Grantham that well.
He was one of the king’s privy councilors, one of his foremost advisers, but he and Kat had hardly shared the same social circles. He’d been knighted at some point, suggesting that he’d done the kingdom some service, yet the act hadn’t made the news. Kat knew there was a lot that didn’t make the news, of course, but she should have heard whispers if it was something classified. The fact she hadn’t heard anything meant . . . what? She didn’t know.
And she didn’t really like him. She wasn’t sure why. He was handsome, in a bland way that suggested he’d had cosmetic surgery rather than having his genetics engineered or relying on blind chance. His brown hair and wry smile made him look warm and friendly, although there was an edge to his posture that suggested it was an act. Maybe she was bothered by the hints of sycophancy, of a social climber trying to make his way to the top through any means necessary. God knew she’d met enough social climbers in her early life. She could have surrounded herself with a small army of sycophants from birth if she’d wished.
But he is completely dependent on the king, Kat reminded herself, as she allowed Sir Grantham to lead her into a small conference room. He has no independent power base or wealth of his own.
The thought stung, more than she’d expected. She didn’t have an independent power base now, insofar as she’d ever had. She’d been her father’s client, for all intents and purposes; now, technically, she’d betrayed her family by siding with the king. Her trust fund had probably been confiscated, at least until she gave a full accounting of herself and sought her family’s forgiveness. The thought made her snort. Her brother had never liked her. He’d sooner see her starve than forgive her . . .
She rested her hands on her hips as she turned to face Sir Grantham. “What do you want?”
Sir Grantham looked, just for a second, unsure of himself. “We have to talk,” he said finally. The hatch hissed closed behind them. “We . . .”
“Then talk,” Kat said. She had too much to do. The fleet had to be reorganized, the crews had to be shunted around . . . She simply didn’t have time for a long and pointless chat. She’d never liked high society’s habit of using ten words when only one would do, and she had no intention of embracing it now. “What do you want?”
“You’re sending half your crew back home,” Sir Grantham said. “Back to the enemy.”
The enemy, Kat thought. A month ago, everyone had been on the same side. It was hard to believe that the Commonwealth was now irreparably split in two, that they were about to start shooting at each other. We’re already thinking of them as the enemy?
She kept her face carefully blank. “Yes. So?”
Sir Grantham flushed. “You’re giving aid and comfort to the enemy!”
Kat took a long breath. “Would you rather I kept unwilling crewmen on this ship?”
“You shouldn’t have sent them back to Tyre,” Sir Grantham said. “I . . .”
“Let me put it to you as simply as I can.” Kat met his eyes, silently daring him to look away. “Spacers, soldiers, marines . . . They’re not machines. None of them signed up to fight their former comrades. None of them. They joined to defend the Commonwealth or fight the Theocracy or simply because they wanted adventure and excitement . . . They didn’t join up to fight a civil war. And we dragged hundreds of thousands of crewmen all the way to Caledonia without so much as asking if they want to join us.”
“They should follow orders,” Sir Grantham insisted. “They’re paid to—”
“Legitimate orders.” Kat cut him off. “There’s no provision in the Articles of War for civil war. They didn’t know they would be fighting their former comrades when they joined up.”
“And so you want to send them back home?” Sir Grantham sounded astonished. “You should keep them here . . .”
“And then what?” Kat held his gaze. “There will be—there are—crewmen in this
fleet who don’t support the king. What am I meant to do with them? Hold mass executions? Throw them out the airlock? Dump them on a penal world? You know what? I don’t even know which members of my crew might support the king! Perhaps I should just start shooting crewmen at random.”
Sir Grantham flushed. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Kat corrected, coldly. “Please. Enlighten me.”
“The crewmen you’re sending home will join the enemy,” Sir Grantham said. “You’re helping them to . . .”
Kat let out a long breath. “First, it probably doesn’t matter. The House of Lords is not short of manpower. We’re not going to be sending entire squadrons of superdreadnoughts into their welcoming arms. They will have no trouble mustering a fleet, if we give them time, with or without the crewmen we’re sending back. It simply does not matter.
“Second, and I want you to think carefully about this, what sort of message do you think it sends to everyone, the people on both sides, if we don’t let our crews vote their conscience?”
She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “I’ll tell you what sort of message it sends. It suggests that we don’t give a damn about the people who fight for us, that we are willing to press-gang crewmen into fighting for us . . . that we are dragging people who have nothing to do with our fight—who don’t want anything to do with our fight, who don’t give a damn who comes out on top—into our fight. That we are forcing them to fight for us. Do you really want a mutiny? Or someone trying to sabotage the ship?”
“They’ll follow orders,” Sir Grantham insisted.
“It only takes one person to cause a great deal of trouble,” Kat said. “If we force people to fight for us, they will resent it. They will see us as the enemy even if they see our cause as right. The ones who don’t really care about our cause will sympathize with the ones who see us as the enemy, because we press-ganged them into fighting for us. We cannot afford to treat our crew as slaves. Slaves can revolt.”
She sighed inwardly, knowing he wouldn’t understand. He’d probably grown up among the lesser aristocracy, at a guess, the ones who obsessed over status and social precedence, the ones who snapped and snarled whenever someone of lesser birth threatened to climb past them . . . the ones who clung to their social pretensions because they simply didn’t have anything else. To them, the servants—their butlers, their maids, even their bodyguards—were just tools. The idea that they might have thoughts and feelings of their own was alien to them.
“I did what I had to do,” she said, firmly. “This way, we know that the people who fight for us genuinely want to fight for us. And the remainder of the crew will know it too. It will be harder, much harder, for any dissenters to plot a mutiny or sabotage the ship.”
“You weakened us,” Sir Grantham protested.
Kat allowed her gaze to sharpen. “I would sooner take an undermanned ship into battle than risk having my crew turn on me,” she said firmly. “And I will not betray my crewmen by forcing them into a war they didn’t volunteer to fight.”
“We have to win,” Sir Grantham said. “And that means . . .”
“. . . Not doing things that might cost us the war?” Kat strode past him. “I am in command of this fleet. If you have a complaint about the way I do things, take it to His Majesty. He can tell me what he thinks of your complaints.”
She stopped by the hatch, slowly turning to face him. “And if you try to interfere with the off-loading, I will break you.”
Sir Grantham purpled. Kat was sure he was trying to think of a response, of a crushing remark that would send her to her knees, but she didn’t give him time. Instead, she turned back to the hatch and walked through. The hatch hissed closed behind her, leaving him in the conference room. She wasn’t really surprised he hadn’t tried to follow her. She’d put him in his place.
I sounded just like my cousin, Kat thought sourly. She’d never really liked Cousin Olivia, who’d married well and didn’t let anyone forget it. And she would have been a great deal nastier as she cut him off at the knees.
Her lips twitched as she made her way down the corridor, passing a handful of open cabins where the king’s staffers and closest supporters, the ones who couldn’t remain on Tyre without being arrested or forced into exile, were making their preparations to disembark. Kat’s crew would be glad to see the last of them. The superdreadnought was no Supreme, no interstellar liner with gold-plated bulkheads and staffers willing to do anything, anything at all, for a hefty tip. Kat had had to put one of the aristocrats in the brig for harassing a young crewman. The dumb bastard hadn’t realized, somehow, that he wasn’t in his estate any longer. Or, for that matter, that no one had to put up with his conduct. He’d been lucky not to have his lights punched out.
A pair of servants hurried past her, carrying a large trunk. Kat wondered idly what its owner had packed, then decided it probably didn’t matter. The king himself had packed well—he’d been one of the few people to realize he might have to leave Tyre—but the others hadn’t had much time to think about such eventualities. Kat had read the security reports. Some of the aristocrats had brought clothes and money, in a number of interstellar denominations; others, less practical or simply caught on the hop, had brought everything from shooting gear, as if they were going on safari, to works of art and other absurd comforts. She found it hard to believe that anyone could be so stupid.
But I suppose they could sell the paintings, if they desperately needed money, she reflected as she reached the final cabin. They’d just have to find a buyer . . .
She pressed her hand against the scanner and waited. The king’s guardsmen had been horrified when it had dawned on them that it was difficult, very difficult, to keep the superdreadnought’s crew out of Officer Country. The superdreadnought was no luxury liner, with firm lines between first-, second-, and steerage-class passengers. The guardsmen had wanted to seal off the whole section, but the king had overruled them. Kat rather suspected her old friend was enjoying his freedom, such as it was. He’d never sailed on a superdreadnought before.
The hatch hissed open, allowing her to step inside. The quarters, designed for an admiral, were palatial by naval standards, which hadn’t stopped some of the aristocrats from openly wondering if they’d been dumped in midshipman cabins. Kat honestly hadn’t known if she should laugh or cry when she’d heard the complaints. Midshipmen, even aristocratic midshipmen, could only dream of having a boxy compartment to themselves. They simply didn’t have enough room to swing a cat.
And they have to share it with a handful of others, Kat reflected. She’d enjoyed her first cruise, but the lack of privacy had grated on her. They would kill just to have the compartment to themselves.
She looked around the compartment, feeling an odd twinge of discomfort. The quarters had been hers a couple of weeks ago. She’d moved into her ready room to provide space for the king, his princess, and his attendants. They hadn’t changed the compartment much, she noted, save for the handful of boxes stacked awkwardly against the far bulkhead. The portrait of her father she’d hung on one bulkhead hadn’t been removed. She wondered, grimly, what her father would have thought of the civil war. It was hard to believe that the situation would have spun so badly out of control if her father hadn’t been assassinated at the end of the war.
The last war, she reminded herself. She’d never really been at peace, even after the formal end of the Theocratic War. How quickly we forget.
A hatch opened. She straightened to attention as the king stepped out of the bedroom, wearing his carefully tailored naval uniform. He looked good in it, Kat had to admit, although he’d never served a day in his life. His advisers hadn’t either, she guessed; he might not know it, but he didn’t hold himself like a naval officer. His posture was a little too sharp, his bearing a little too authoritative. But he’d look good on the holovid, she supposed, and that was all that mattered.
“Kat,” the king said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Your Majesty,” Kat said.
She bobbed her head. They’d known each other since childhood, although the demands of their respective social classes had kept them from being too close. And she was a privy councilor in her own right. She had the right to call him by his first name, if she wished. But she knew better. They had to tend to the formalities, now that the established order was starting to fracture. They had to keep telling themselves that very little had changed. Who knew? Perhaps the pretense would be enough to make it so.
The king grinned. He’d always been handsome, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a roguish look that had melted more than one heart. Kat had heard the rumors about the king’s girlfriends, although none of them had ever been confirmed. It was hard to take them on faith when she knew the rumors that the king had engaged in an affair with her were complete fabrications. Her lips twitched at the absurd thought. An affair with the king? She was sure she would have noticed if she’d had an affair with the king. She liked and respected him—not least because he was the only one who’d fought for colonial rights—but they’d never been more than friends and allies.
“I hear that you’re disembarking some of your crew,” the king said. He gave her a reassuring smile. “I quite understand.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Kat kept her face impassive. “Sir Grantham has already tried to tell me off for it.”
The king shrugged. “Some of my advisers feel that it is a mistake.”
“Keeping them would be an even greater mistake,” Kat pointed out, again. “We don’t want people who haven’t committed themselves to our cause.”
She shook her head in irritation. She had little patience for politics, for endless debates over pettifogging issues when there were real problems on the horizon. Politicians seemed to produce nothing these days but hot air . . . while real people were robbed, raped, and murdered. Her father, at least, had been an exception. She wondered, bitterly, why he hadn’t taught his oldest son the difference between important matters and petty politics before it was too late. The king might have been inexperienced, at least before the Theocratic War, but at least he had a good head on his shoulders. He knew not to waste time with nonsense.
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