Debt of War (The Embers of War)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  Too much, Kat thought. The king had agreed to the plan at once, understanding that they needed to gamble, but some of his supporters had objected strongly. We’re taking a serious risk here.

  She met Kitty’s eyes. “Download their tactical records, then set course for the second waypoint,” she ordered. “Deploy sensor drones and watch for prying eyes.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Kitty said. “Long-range sensors are clear.”

  “Of course they are,” Kat said. “Don’t take that for granted.”

  She sighed as she leaned back into her chair. Hyperspace was a rolling sea of energy, a seething mass of sensor distortions and reflections that made it impossible to be sure something was out there until it was right on top of the fleet. The ninety ships under her command were flying in close formation, and even they had problems keeping track of each other’s location. Hyperspace was more than usually agitated today, as if someone had been detonating nukes and antimatter bombs only a few short light-years away. She wondered if someone was. Disrupting hyperspace was dangerously unpredictable, a tactic of desperation, but . . . someone might be willing to try. Impeding transit between star systems might be very helpful to someone who wasn’t dependent on interstellar trade.

  But someone could be trying to keep an eye on us, she reminded herself. And if they figure out our target and get ahead of us . . .

  She shook her head. There was no way to be certain they weren’t being followed. They’d have to carry out the exercises to make tracking difficult, all too aware that they might be wasting their time or . . . or simply wasting their time in another way. She was almost tempted to drop a bomb or two herself, just to confuse any watching eyes, but she knew it was too dangerous.

  A dull quiver ran through the superdreadnought. “Admiral, we’re on course to the next waypoint,” Kitty reported. “We should be there in ten days.”

  “Give or take a few hours,” Kat said. It was impossible to be sure precisely how much time they would need to reach the waypoint, let alone Perfuma. She’d planned on the assumption the fleet would take longer than simulations suggested. “Inform the crew that we’ll remain on low-level alert until we reach the waypoint, unless something enters our sensor displays.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Kitty said.

  Kat nodded. They weren’t following a straight-line course to Perfuma, which meant spending a few extra hours in transit. But the longer route minimized the risk of detection. The spacelanes between Caledonia and Perfuma were quiet these days, yet the risk of detection was higher than she was prepared to tolerate. Taking a few extra hours to reach their target was worthwhile if they remained undetected. The odds of being detected were quite low.

  She stood. “We’ll continue tactical exercises tomorrow,” she said. “Until then, order the tactical crews to get some sleep. You too.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Kitty said.

  Kat stepped through the hatch, nodding to the marine on duty as she passed him and made her way down the corridor. The superdreadnought felt odd, both home and yet not home. Kat felt a twist in her heart, knowing what it meant. Violence might be under her command, but she wasn’t her ship. Kat wasn’t her mistress. She couldn’t legally give orders to anyone on the vessel save for her tactical staff. Not, she supposed, that an ensign would stand up to her if she tried to give him orders. He’d wind up in deep shit even if he was standing on firm legal ground.

  Although Captain Procaccini would be irked if I did give some poor bastard orders, Kat thought sardonically. It was an oddity of the chain of command that a lowly ensign might outrank an admiral under the right circumstances. On the other hand, he might realize the ensign didn’t have much choice.

  She reached the cabin and stepped inside, feeling tiredness threatening to overwhelm her as she sat on the sofa. She wanted—she needed—to sleep, but she was too keyed up to sleep. The last few days had been busy, too busy. There’d been too many headaches she had to resolve, headaches that wouldn’t have been a problem sixth months ago. She could have left such matters in subordinate hands, if she’d ever heard of them at all. Admirals didn’t have to know the gory details. She would have been quite happy if her staff had taken care of them . . .

  She looked at the golden band on her hand and scowled. What would Pat Davidson think of her now? He’d always been loyal to the Commonwealth, but . . . what side would he have taken, when push came to shove? Would Kat herself have even taken a side? They’d talked about buying a freighter and setting off on their own, building a life for themselves that would have been free of obligation . . .

  She felt a bitter pang, knowing she should take the ring off and make a new life for herself. The headshrinkers had said as much, in the weeks and months after the end of the last war. Kat hadn’t cared one whit for their words. The ring was all she had left to remember him.

  And yet, William took the other side, she reminded herself. Would Pat have been on the other side too?

  She didn’t want to think about it, but she had no choice. The war might be remarkably civilized so far, yet it was also terrible. She knew the men and women on the other side. Her brother was practically leading the other side. Her best friend was fighting for it. Her . . . She shook her head. She and Hadrian knew practically everyone on the other side. Yet they were fighting, and things were likely to get worse before they got better. The king might want a limited war, but some of his supporters thought otherwise. The colonials wanted to be free of Tyre and didn’t much care who got hurt, as long as they broke free.

  The intercom bleeped. Kat cursed. “Yes?”

  “Admiral,” Commander Jenkins said. “I’ve arrested a crewman for sedition. He’s appealed to you.”

  Kat blinked. “You’ve arrested a crewman? Did you clear it with Captain Procaccini?”

  “No, Admiral,” Jenkins said. “My authority from the king—”

  “Does not supersede the captain’s authority on his ship,” Kat snarled. They’d gone over this. They’d gone over it again and again and . . . she wanted to wrap her hands around Jenkins’s neck and squeeze. Damn him. Captain Procaccini was not going to be pleased. His crew was going to be furious. “Bring him to my cabin. And inform the captain, if you haven’t already.”

  She sat upright, brushing down her uniform. She supposed she should have ordered them to her office, but she was just too tired to care. She reached for an injector tab, then shook her head. The stimulant would wear off quickly, and then she’d be in a far worse place. The tab was only to be used if there was no other choice.

  The hatch bleeped, then opened on her command. Jenkins entered, escorting a middle-aged man in cuffs. Two more security officers followed, shockrods tightly clutched in their hands as if they expected to need them. Kat wondered, sardonically, if they thought their prisoner was enhanced to the point he could break his cuffs and take them down before they could draw real weapons. Shockrods were nasty, if used properly. But a trained man could avoid them long enough to fight back.

  “Admiral,” Jenkins said. “I present to you Senior Chief Watterson, who was caught spreading sedition . . .”

  A senior chief. The idiot had arrested a senior chief. There were few NCOs more respected than senior chiefs. In many ways, they were the backbone of the navy belowdecks. Captain Procaccini was going to be pissed unless there was very clear proof of sedition. She took a long breath, wishing she knew Watterson. The days when she’d known everyone under her command were long gone.

  She met Jenkins’s eyes. “What did he do?”

  Jenkins looked back at her, warily. “He was questioning the Colonial Alliance’s decision to continue to support the king.”

  “I see,” Kat said. She felt a sudden urge to scream in frustration. It wasn’t sedition. It couldn’t be sedition. “That isn’t sedition.”

  “Admiral.” Jenkins paused, then started again. “Admiral, there is a legal definition of sedition . . .”

  “And merely questioning the king doesn’t meet it,” Kat snappe
d. She put firm controls on her temper. She wanted to sleep. No, she wanted to do something—anything—to burn off her frustration before she lost control. “Commander, plotting a mutiny would be sedition. Encouraging others to plot or carry out a mutiny would be sedition. Anything else . . . rather less so.”

  “Admiral, he was undermining the social order,” Jenkins said. “It isn’t his place to question the king’s position . . .”

  Kat sucked in her breath. From one point of view, Jenkins was right. A senior officer, or senior chief, shouldn’t have a public opinion. But, from another, Jenkins was dead wrong. A citizen had every right to question his government’s decisions, in hopes of either changing them or being educated in the underlying reasoning. And, on the gripping hand, the commissioners were already unpopular. If they started arresting people for expressing opinions, they’d simply drive those opinions underground.

  And then people really will start plotting, Kat thought. She knew that such silencing had helped the king, back when he’d put out a call for supporters. And then we’ll come apart at the seams.

  She met his eyes. “You will release him. You will apologize to him. You will report to Captain Procaccini, and you will apologize to him too. And if you have grounds for arresting anyone else, for any reason at all, you will clear it with me and the captain first. Is that understood?”

  “Admiral,” Jenkins began. “I . . .”

  “Is that understood?” Kat repeated. Her anger started to bubble out of control. The urge to do something thoroughly unpleasant was almost overwhelming. “Or do I have to have you all imprisoned?”

  “No, Admiral,” Jenkins said. “I understand.”

  “Good,” Kat snapped. She calmed herself with an effort. “Release him, then go. Now.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CALEDONIA

  “The message is clear, Admiral,” Flag Captain Lucy Cavendish said. “The king dispatched a single superdreadnought squadron from Tyre.”

  “So it seems,” William said. A single superdreadnought squadron could cause a great deal of harm, but . . . it couldn’t materially affect the balance of power. “When was the message sent?”

  “Nine hours ago,” Lucy said. She made a show of looking at her wristcom. “It was only forwarded to us now.”

  William nodded. The message wasn’t very informative. There was no raw sensor data, something that couldn’t be sent over the StarCom network without raising eyebrows, but it was enough. An enemy superdreadnought squadron had departed Caledonia, destination unknown. The observer hadn’t forwarded the squadron’s vector, not that it mattered. Any captain worthy of the name would know to change course once they were in hyperspace. It was page one of the tactical manual.

  “I daresay we’ll see them soon enough,” he mused. Nine hours . . . The squadron couldn’t have moved that far from Caledonia. It would be days before the enemy ships reached their target, days . . . He shook his head. There was scant hope of mounting an ambush. The squadron would probably reach its destination before any reinforcements from Tyre. “Alert the fleet bases to expect attack.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Lucy said.

  William put the matter aside as he turned his attention back to the endless series of reports. Home Fleet was growing stronger every day as more and more starships came out of the reserve and joined the fleet. There were still crewing shortages, a problem made worse by power games among his well-connected officers, but he was fairly confident they’d be overcome sooner or later. And then . . . He looked up at the starchart, silently calculating the distance between Tyre and Caledonia. Home Fleet could reach the king’s base in less than two weeks. The king could surrender, fight to the death, or flee. And then the war would be effectively over.

  “Order the tactical department to start drawing up plans for raids into enemy territory,” he said calmly. He was losing his reluctance to target colonial infrastructure. The loss of life would be bad enough, but the economic damage would almost be worse. And yet, there was no choice. If he wasn’t allowed to challenge the king’s fleet directly, he’d have to take out the industries that kept the fleet alive. “I want operational plans on my desk by the end of the day.”

  “Yes, sir,” Commander Isa Yagami said. “I’ll see to it personally.”

  And the plans probably already exist, at least in draft form, William thought. Tactical staffers spent half their time doing the prep work, often before they were ordered to prepare the operational assessments underlying the tactical plans. They seemed to like imagining wars that would leave half the galaxy in ruins, if anyone had the resources and will to fight them. They shouldn’t have any trouble updating the plans and bringing them to me.

  His wristcom bleeped. A private message had arrived. He opened it and frowned, skimming the handful of lines. His brother was on Island One, waiting for him. William swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He had no qualms about what he was doing, but . . .

  He dismissed the thought. “Commander, alert my shuttle,” he ordered. “I’m going to Island One.”

  “Aye, sir,” Yagami said.

  William went back to his cabin, changed into a civilian outfit, and made his way to the shuttlebay. His personal craft was already waiting, the drives humming . . . He was still taken aback by the luxury of having his own shuttlecraft, even though it came in handy from time to time. He would have been happy using a standard shuttle whenever he needed one. Admirals had all kinds of perks, but . . . a personal shuttle was just absurd. He put the thought aside as the pilot flew him to Island One, William’s codes allowing him to pass through the security screen as though it wasn’t there. William made a mental note to raise the issue with his superiors when he had a moment. A lone shuttle, packed with antimatter, could vaporize Island One, or another habitat, if it was allowed to dock without being inspected.

  And yet, the checks we’d need to ensure it could never happen would annoy people, he mused as he disembarked and headed for the bar. No shortage of complaints to contend with during the war.

  He made his way through the crowd. Island One was the oldest habitat in the system, old enough to predate most of the settlements on Tyre itself. Immigrants had gone through Island One to be processed before they’d been allowed to land on the planet below. Even now, Island One was still a gateway to the stars, as close to Tyre as someone could get without passing through an intensive security check. The lower decks were crammed with immigrants, people hoping to get a work visa before they were deported back home. William had heard the immigration rate hadn’t changed even though there was a war on. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.

  The sound of loud music greeted him as he stepped into the bar. He looked around, rolling his eyes at the erotic dancers on stage. The bar had clearly had its day a long time ago. He noticed only a handful of patrons, all of whom seemed more interested in their drinks than the dancers. William ignored a wave from one of the performers as he peered into the cubicles. Commodore Scott McElney, his brother, was sitting in the semidarkness, nursing a pint of beer. William hoped it was beer. The bar was seedy enough that it was hard to be sure.

  “Bill,” Scott said as William slipped into the cubicle and sat down. “I got your message. I also got a string of shipping contracts. Do I have you to thank for that?”

  “No,” William said. He was damned if he was abusing his position, even though everyone knew everyone did it. He wasn’t an aristo with a family that would back him if he was caught by the IG. “Dare I ask who hired your crews?”

  “Probably better you don’t know,” Scott said. “You might have . . . issues with it.”

  The king, William guessed. Scott had been playing both sides of the field. And you know I know . . .

  He put the thought aside. “How’s business?”

  “Wars are good for business,” Scott said. “But then, I guess you know that.”

  “Peace is also good for business,” William countered. An old argument. “But then, I guess you know that too.”


  Scott laughed. “People don’t ask so many questions during wartime,” he said. “They’re so grateful you’re prepared to work for them that they don’t put barriers in your way. In peace, on the other hand, there are taxes and tariffs and tedious morality and all the other things that get in the way of free trade.”

  “And if there weren’t, you’d be out of a job,” William said lightly. “What sort of gratitude is that?”

  “Hey, I’d be legit if I could,” Scott said. He shrugged. “I daresay you’re not going to come and work for me. And you don’t need to come in person to make a deal with me. So . . . why did you want to see me?”

  William met his eyes. “I want you to do me a favor.”

  Scott looked back at him, his voice dead serious. “What do you want?”

  “I need you to take a message to Caledonia,” William said. “And it absolutely, positively cannot be intercepted.”

  “I see,” Scott said. “And do you want me to take a side in this war?”

  William allowed his irritation to show. “Scott . . . I get it. I really do. I understand precisely why you’re so sour on governments in general and ours in particular. But right now . . . if you wind up on the wrong side of the war . . .”

  “The one that loses,” Scott quoted.

  “. . . Then you’ll be in deep shit afterwards,” William said. “I know you don’t want to choose a side until there’s a clear winner, but by the time a clear winner is visible they’re not going to need you any longer, are they? This is your chance to earn one hell of a lot of gratitude from the Commonwealth.”

  “Gratitude is insubstantial,” Scott pointed out. “I need something a little more solid.”

  “You can go legit,” William said. He knew his brother. He’d taken the time to lay the groundwork for a reward, if Scott wanted it. “Whatever you did, in the past, would be left in the past.”

  “The past has a habit of turning rotten and stinking the place out,” Scott said. “As you know perfectly well.”