Taking out the StarCom was brilliant, he thought. It makes it impossible for us to coordinate our forces. Kat and the survivors wouldn’t even know where to go.
“We’ve got contact,” Loomis snapped. “Two people making their way towards the barn. I can’t see any weapons.”
Davidson leaned forward. “That’s the farmer’s daughter,” he said. He’d seen the girl when he’d entered the farmhouse. She was pretty enough, and she was almost as muscular as a female marine. But then, a farm was no place for a shrinking violet. Or a weakling. “And the person she’s with . . .”
He stared. There was something odd about the person, something that sent alarm bells jangling at the back of his mind. He wore jeans and a shirt and a large hat that obscured his face, yet something wasn’t quite right. But there was no time to think about it. Motioning for the marines to stay back, Davidson walked out of the barn and down towards the two newcomers. The farmer’s daughter muttered something, then turned and walked back to the farmhouse, leaving the stranger alone.
“Greetings,” the stranger said. “You seem to be a little lost.”
Davidson blinked in sudden understanding. The stranger wasn’t a man, but a woman—no, a girl who looked round nineteen—wearing men’s clothes and doing her best to pass as a man. From what he recalled of local culture, that was unlikely to please anyone . . . although it hardly mattered in the Commonwealth, where men and women held interchangeable roles. Cadiz was nowhere near as restrictive when it came to women as the Theocracy, but a woman playing at being a man would have shocked the locals. But it was quite possible none of them had noticed. They would be too accustomed to thinking man when they saw someone in male clothing.
“I suppose you could put it that way,” he said. He sat down on the grass, trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible. It wasn’t easy. “And yourself?”
“Uncertain,” the girl admitted. She sat, then held out a callused hand. “My name is Jess, by the way.”
Patrick nodded. Jess as a name could be either male or female, which made sense. Had her father wanted a boy? Or had she merely called herself by a name that could apply to both sexes and allowed everyone to draw the wrong conclusion? There was no way to know without asking her, yet it wasn’t something he dared ask. If she’d hidden her sex from her fellow fighters, she wouldn’t take kindly to having her secret in the hands of an outsider.
“Patrick,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. She definitely had a very masculine handshake. “Royal Marines.”
“I’ll get right to the point,” Jess said. “What are you doing here?”
“Our shuttle was shot down,” Davidson said. “We hiked here while the attack began. Now . . . we’re hiding.”
“An interesting role reversal for you,” Jess said. She met his eyes. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t call the Theocracy and hand you over to them?”
Davidson hesitated, composing his arguments. “I assume you’ve heard their broadcast,” he said. “They’re not here to liberate you from our clutches. They’re here to take your world for themselves.”
“I heard their broadcast,” Jess said.
“I’ve heard hundreds of accounts from refugees,” Davidson continued. “They will reshape your society to suit themselves. The best you can hope for is that you will be treated as second-class citizens on your own homeworld, your religions shattered, and your population forced to follow their rules. At worst . . . you will simply be marginalized and scattered.”
Jess lifted her eyebrows. “And this will be different from your occupation?”
“Oh yes,” Davidson said. “It will be far worse—and permanent.”
He took a breath. “Men of power and influence will be killed,” he said. “People like yourself, people who can lead a fight, will be killed. Everyone from government officials and policemen to teachers and religious leaders will be killed. And then they will start reshaping your society. Women will be isolated, trapped inside their homes; men will be expected to convert or remain as second-class citizens for the rest of their lives. And many of them will convert.
“Give the Theocrats fifty years,” he concluded, “and your society will have been completely reshaped in their image. And there will be no one left who recalls what life was like before they arrived.”
“They’d have to land a huge army,” Jess pointed out. “Could they afford it when they’re fighting the Commonwealth at the same time?”
“They’d be able to call in planetary bombardment strikes if you got uppity,” Patrick said. “I don’t think they operate under restrictive ROE—Rules of Engagement.”
“I see,” Jess said. There was no trace of emotion in her voice. “And what can you offer us that makes concealing you from them”—she jerked a finger upwards, indicating the sky—“worth the risk?”
“We can help you fight,” Davidson said. “Because I bet you anything you care to put forward that the Theocracy will have worn out its welcome within three weeks.”
“I’d not take that bet,” Jess said. She rose. “You will be allowed to stay here for the moment, Patrick, as long as you don’t cause trouble or attract attention. Do not attempt to contact the PDC or any other remnants of the occupation force.”
“Understood,” Davidson said.
“There are other stragglers,” Jess continued. “We may try and hide them, depending on what happens. But some of them won’t be taken alive. Too many collaborators have already been killed in the fighting. It’s hard to keep people back from murdering them all.”
Patrick heard the unspoken threat in her voice and nodded.
Jess paused and then met his eyes. “If the Theocracy starts trying to control us, you can help us fight,” she added slowly. “We will need your help if things become as bad as you suggest they will. But if they leave us alone, we will leave them alone.”
“They won’t,” Davidson predicted.
“We will see,” Jess said. “And one other thing?”
Patrick looked at her earnest eyes and nodded.
“Keep your men under tight control,” Jess said. Her voice was very firm. “I had to argue for hours to convince . . . some people not to go after you at once. Some of them wanted revenge, others just wanted to eliminate you before you became a threat. I had to argue with men who don’t always trust my judgment.”
She took a breath. “Please don’t make me regret that, Patrick.”
“I won’t,” Davidson said. He hesitated and then asked the question that had been nagging at him since he’d realized she was a girl. “Why did you join the insurgency anyway?”
Jess smiled at him. “Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “I wanted my planet to be free.”
Davidson sighed. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth,” he said. “But the same factors that made you so interesting to the Commonwealth will attract the Theocracy.”
He was tempted to ask what kind of life she would have had if the Commonwealth had never invaded and the Theocracy had never existed. Would she have reached a position of considerable power and influence anyway . . . or would her gender have restricted her? Would she have been allowed to choose her own husband or would her family have picked a man for her? He didn’t dare disrupt their fragile agreement by asking.
“If we win the war, there shouldn’t be any need to hold Cadiz against its will,” he said instead. “And I believe the occupation will not be restored.”
Jess met his eyes. “And if you lose?”
Davidson snorted. “I think we’ll have worse problems to worry about,” he said. “The Theocracy will not leave people like me alive.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
There had never been a terrorist attack in Tyre City. Not one. The planet’s original population had been volunteers, instead of the reluctant exiles shipped to worlds that didn’t need or want them, and anyone who wanted to opt out of the corporate-based society could have done so easily. Even the handful of insurgencies the newborn Commonwealth had fa
ced had never reached Tyre City. The locale had always known peace.
Until now, Duke Lucas thought, as his aircar flew towards the Royal Palace. Smoke rose from a dozen locations all over the city, while armed aircars and military hovercraft circled, looking for targets. Beside him, Sandra, his personal assistant, looked faintly uneasy. No one will ever feel safe again.
He glared down at his terminal, half wishing he could just push everything that had happened out of his mind. The attacks had seemed to come out of nowhere, starting with computer viruses striking various planetary datanets and ending with outright attacks on the political and military infrastructure. No one had expected such an assault, despite the looming threat of war, and planetary security forces had been caught flat-footed. There had already been a string of incidents caused by nervous guardsmen that had resulted in fatal shootings.
“Your Grace,” Sandra said, “I have the latest report from Pinnacle.”
“Go ahead,” Lucas ordered. Sandra was a formidably efficient woman with East Asian features and a mind like a steel trap. He happened to know she’d pushed augmentation as far as it could go, at least for civilians. Half of her mind was permanently connected to the datanet. “What’s the bad news?”
“A freighter was intercepted by the security patrols before it could break into the facility using old IFF codes,” Sandra said. “The crew detonated the self-destruct before they could be taken into custody.”
“Well, thank goodness for paranoia,” Lucas said. The access codes had been changed only a week prior, following the reports from the border. There had been protests at the time, but he had a feeling they would be muted now. “Do we have any incident reports from the cloudscoops?”
“Not as yet,” Sandra said. “They’re still running round like headless chickens.”
Lucas nodded, unsurprised. They’d called enough security drills over the past few weeks to leave his security teams confident they could handle anything. Evidently, they’d been wrong—or, at least, too blasé about the alert when it began. And then the shit had hit the fan. He had a feeling, when reports started to come in from the rest of the Commonwealth, that there would be more attacks. The Theocracy clearly didn’t believe in doing things by halves.
But they have to make damn sure they win now, he thought as he looked at one of the plumes of smoke. They’ve made us mad.
He looked back at Sandra. “Is there any word from the Admiralty?”
“No, sir,” Sandra said. “They’ve gone into lockdown.”
Just like the rest of the planet, Lucas thought. Normally, there would be hundreds of aircars over the city and thousands of automobiles moving through the streets. Now it was eerily quiet, the only signs of life being armed soldiers as they hurried to reinforce the guards at potential targets. I wouldn’t even be here if the king hadn’t called me personally.
He sucked in a breath as the aircar dropped down and landed neatly in front of the palace. It was easy to see the Royal Marines, in full combat battle dress, pointing weapons at his vehicle as the hatch opened. One moment of panic, the morbid side of his mind noted, and his career would come to a short, sharp end. Then the Family Council would have to select his successor while the war started to rage. He stepped out of the car and submitted without an argument to the scanners the marines waved over his body. Behind him, Sandra was getting the same treatment, only more thoroughly. She rarely visited the palace.
Inside, there were armed guards everywhere, looking round as if they expected the portraits on the walls to spring to life and attack. Lucas tried not to think about new dangers as they were hurried through the corridors and up the stairs into the formal audience chamber. The king was already there, standing in front of the window and staring out over the city, his entire body tense. He’d warned of the Theocracy’s threat as soon as he’d become old enough to take an interest in politics, Lucas knew. Now, his worst fears had come to pass.
“Your Majesty,” Sandra said. It was the first time she’d ever spoken before her master. “Should you be standing there?”
The king turned to face her, his dark eyes glittering. “If they have a sniper with a weapon that can break through that window,” he said, “I’m dead anyway. I just had to see for myself.”
Sandra dropped to one knee. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” she said. “I . . .”
“Thank nothing of it,” the king said. He looked at Lucas. “Thank you for coming.”
Lucas’s lips twitched. “Your message didn’t suggest I had a choice, Your Majesty,” he said flatly. “Why did you call me here?”
“The war has begun,” the king said. “We have reports from a dozen systems, each one reporting terrorist attacks on political, military, and economic targets. In some places, the damage has been quite extensive; in others, the terrorists were intercepted before they could do any real harm. These are the first shots in the war.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lucas said. He took a breath. His daughter was on the front lines. “Has there been any word from Cadiz?”
“Contact was lost three hours ago,” the king said. “I am assuming the worst.”
He met Lucas’s eyes. “The Theocracy’s ambassador has requested permission to meet with me,” he added. “I do not expect it to be a very pleasant meeting. There will probably be a declaration of war involved. Even if there isn’t, Parliament is meeting in emergency session this afternoon. I have no doubt that a declaration of war will pass through both houses within an hour.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lucas said.
“You will attend the meeting,” the king said. “Your insights will be welcome. But there is another reason I called you here. In a state of war, the normal checks and balances on political power are removed. I will wield supreme power over the state.”
Lucas nodded. The constitution had been designed to prevent the king riding roughshod over Parliament, but a state of war gave the monarch vast power to tackle the situation as he saw fit. It had never been tested, until now. Lucas had the nasty feeling that the years after the war would see lawyers making a great deal of money, while sensitive events were rehashed time and time again.
“I will be forming a war council,” the king continued. “Someone will have to serve as Minister of War Production. That will be you.”
Lucas thought, fast. His promotion would be challenged by the other dukes, he knew, although most of them were sensible enough to realize the Commonwealth needed a unified system of war production. It would test his diplomatic skills to the limit. Some of the other dukes would be unsuited to a role on his subordinate council but would demand one in exchange for keeping their protests to a reasonable limit. Others would resent him taking a position over them and work to undermine him. It wouldn’t be easy to deal with them.
But it has to be done, he thought. We need to work in unison if we are to have any hope of winning this war.
“I will be calling others over the next two days,” the king said, breaking into Lucas’s thoughts. “We will need to force forward programs to design and then construct new starships, then learn lessons from the opening moves of the war and incorporate them into our long-term development plans. Which weapons worked well in combat? Which ones need to be improved—or scrapped? We will be on a very steep learning curve.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lucas said. He couldn’t disagree with the logic. Besides, if he refused the post someone else would take it. “How much authority will I have?”
“Enough, I hope,” the king said. “I will back you to the hilt. Just remember what will happen if we lose this war.”
Lucas nodded. He would be killed, of course, along with the rest of the male aristocracy. The girls and women, including his daughters, would probably be sold into slavery—or simply raped and then killed. Kat would definitely be killed. As a trained military officer, she would be deemed too dangerous to keep alive. And the factories and industrial nodes he’d spent so long building up would be used to place the entire galaxy under
the yoke of the Theocracy.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said.
There would be other problems, he knew. The war wouldn’t last forever—and when it came to an end, so would the state of emergency. Any enemies he made while gearing the Commonwealth for war would reach for their knives and try to bring him down as soon as the conflict ended. Balancing the needs of the Commonwealth with the requirements to protect his own position would be tricky. Perhaps he should just plan on stepping down as CEO as soon as the war came to an end. It might be the simplest solution.
“And we will also have to hold an inquiry into how the war actually started,” Lucas added. “We need to know who put Admiral Morrison out there, in command of 7th Fleet.”
“We will leave that issue until the end of the conflict,” the king said. “Right now, Your Grace, pointing fingers would be far too divisive.”
Lucas frowned. “Your Majesty . . .”
The king met his eyes. “We cannot risk a political catfight, not now,” he said. “The charges are too serious for that to be allowed. We will leave the issue until the end of the war.”
Which will give Morrison’s benefactors plenty of time to bury evidence, break a few links in the chain, and remain undiscovered, Lucas thought. Anyone with the political clout to steer Admiral Morrison to Cadiz without revealing their involvement would have no trouble hiding their tracks in the confusion caused by the war. But what if he’s right?
No one should have been able to hide their tracks from him. Lucas knew, without false modesty, that he sat at the center of a spiderweb of clients, subpatrons, and their clients. Almost no one should have been able to do something so thoroughly political as arrange Admiral Morrison’s assignment without leaving tracks. And yet someone had definitely succeeded well enough to keep him baffled. That alone was worrying. It suggested that Admiral Morrison’s ultimate backer was one of the dukes. No one else could have hoped to pull it off.
The Oncoming Storm Page 32
