Debt of War (The Embers of War)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CALEDONIA

  “Report,” Bertram said as he reached the makeshift OP. “What’s happening?”

  “Our forces are in position, sir,” Colonel Hector Yuan said. He was a tall man, a colonial militia officer who’d led an insurgency on an occupied world before joining Bertram’s staff. “So far, the king hasn’t made any visible reaction.”

  Bertram looked at the map made from paper, astonishingly primitive by modern standards. It couldn’t update automatically, although he knew from experience that wasn’t always a bad thing. The modern displays were so good that it was easy to forget the fog of war blanketing the battlefield, the grim truth that whatever the displays showed might not be remotely accurate. A red marker had been used to draw out the king’s position, a handful of notes representing his known and suspected forces . . . a handful of blue marks sat outside the defensive line, waiting for the order.

  “The police had been trying to clear the streets,” Yuan added. “So far, they’ve been unsuccessful.”

  “Not too surprising,” Bertram said. The angry crowds pressing against the king’s walls were in deadly danger, even if they didn’t know it. “And the rest of the targets?”

  “The assault forces are in position,” Yuan said. “But we haven’t had word from the fleet.”

  “We’ll have to hope for the best,” Bertram said. “If we can capture the king, we can force him to order his forces to stand down.”

  He let out a breath. “Give the order,” he said. “Begin the assault.”

  And may God forgive me, he thought. His people were more practical and pragmatic than the Tyrians. They might forgive him for launching an assault that would ensure the deaths of thousands of civilians, even if the citizenry ran the moment the assault force started shooting. They’d understand he hadn’t had a choice. But he’d never forgive himself. If this goes wrong . . .

  He put the thought aside as Yuan picked up his handset and started to issue orders. They were running out of time. God alone knew who’d win the battle for the high orbitals. It was alarmingly clear that the king had either launched his own plan to seize the fleet or activated contingency plans for a colonial attempt to do the same. Whoever won, the fleet was going to be in tatters. Bertram had to be in control of the planet—and the king—before the House of Lords came knocking. It was his only hope for negotiating a surrender that wouldn’t be completely unconditional.

  And if we lose, the entire planet will burn, he reminded himself. We must not lose.

  Lieutenant Jackie Richton had never really questioned the king, not even when he’d been given the flat choice between traveling to Caledonia with the rest of the king’s personal guard or remaining on Tyre. The king and his officials had been good to Jackie and the rest of the personal guard, ensuring that they received everything from promotion prospects to paid leave and educational opportunities for their children. Jackie himself had been looking forward to a tour with the Grenadier Guards or one of the other frontline formations when his time with the personal guard ended, although that was probably dead in the water now. It was something that would have to wait until they returned home . . . if, of course, they ever did.

  He shuddered as he heard the sound of angry marchers screaming for justice. The mob looked terrifying, even to experienced soldiers. Jackie wasn’t sure what he’d do if his superiors ordered him to fire on the crowd. There would be a very quick slaughter and then . . . He shuddered again, unable to deny the reality of what he was contemplating. He was loyal to the king. He’d put his life between the king and an assassin, even if it meant his children would grow up without a father. And yet, he drew the line at mass slaughter. He couldn’t fire on a crowd. He’d kill hundreds of people in less than a minute.

  His heart sank as he surveyed the defenses. The palace hadn’t been built for defense, and it showed. The walls were too low to keep the crowd out, even though they were designed to stand up to anything smaller than an antitank plasma cannon. They probably already had ladders, if someone with a bright spark hadn’t thought of simply driving vehicles to the walls and using them to scramble over and into the palace grounds. The skyscrapers nearby provided plenty of perches for snipers, allowing them to fire into the compound without much fear of retaliation. And the armored vehicles sitting on the grounds themselves wouldn’t be that useful when it came to crowd control. There was no way they could handle the crowd gently.

  “The crowd is pressing closer,” the CO said. “Watch the walls.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jackie said. The CO was in the palace itself, relatively safe. “Can the local police not do anything?”

  “They’re caught on the outskirts,” the CO said. “They’re too scared to move.”

  Jackie scowled. He’d heard horror stories of postings to uncivilized worlds, where foreign ambassadors were seen as hated intruders, but Caledonia was supposed to be relatively civilized. And yet, the locals were convinced that the king had ordered an entire planet wiped clean of life. Didn’t they know it was better to check rumors before actually rioting? Jackie had heard through the grapevine that 99 percent of rumors about senior political leaders were either lies or simple exaggerations. The king wouldn’t order an entire planet destroyed. Jackie refused to believe such madness.

  “Sir, the crowd is growing bigger,” he said. “They’ll be pushing down the walls by—”

  He glanced up, sharply, as he heard the telltale crump-crump-crump of mortars. The laser point defense stations came to life a second later, beams of light flickering through the air and detonating the mortar shells before they could crash down in the palace compound. More followed, lighting up the air in a grotesque fireworks display; he heard someone barking orders for counterbattery fire, despite the near certainty of hitting and killing civilians. The big guns rotated and opened fire, hurling shells back towards the mortars. Moments later, he heard explosions in the distance.

  A dull rumble echoed through the crowd, followed by an explosion that picked him up and threw him against the wall. The impact was so hard, despite the body armor and helmet, that he thought for a moment his sanity had been impaired. The wall in front of him, at the bottom of the grounds, was nothing more than a smoking crater. He stared in horror, barely able to see the dead bodies surrounding the ruins. There had been hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people pressed against the walls. Now they were dead or injured or . . .

  He snapped back to himself as a line of soldiers appeared, hugging the edge of the crater as they flowed into the palace grounds. Orders reverberated through the tactical combat network, commanding the armored vehicles to engage the newcomers. Jackie raised his rifle, snapping shots at the enemy troops as they took cover. A streak of light blazed through the air, striking one of the vehicles and turning it into a massive fireball. Bullets pinged off the armor, one of them coming far too close to Jackie’s head for comfort. He looked at the distant skyscrapers, knowing he didn’t have a hope of picking the sniper out against the dull exterior. He didn’t have the slightest idea in fact which building housed the sniper. Perhaps they all held snipers.

  “We’re being attacked from all sides,” someone said. The communications network was hissing, suggesting someone was trying to hack or jam it. “They’re coming at us . . .”

  The ground shook, again. Jackie turned just in time to see a massive fireball blasting up on the far side of the palace. The walls had fallen . . . A third explosion sent pieces of debris crashing to the ground, clattering against windows and walls that had been designed to take impacts up to and including direct missile strikes. He sucked in his breath as he saw another line of enemy troops pressing their advantage as they flowed towards the palace. Behind them, he saw more mortar shells rise into the air. This time there was no counterbattery fire.

  Surrender might not be an option, he thought. The attackers looked like soldiers, colonial military probably, but the mob behind them was angry. Very angry. Anyone who was going to flee,
if they still could flee, would have done so already. The mob would tear the king’s defenders and the king himself limb from limb if they caught him. We dare not try to escape.

  He gritted his teeth. He’d heard plenty of horror stories about embassies that had come under attack. Their only hope was local forces arriving to save their bacon. Here, he was grimly certain that the local forces were the ones doing the attacking. There was no point in screaming for help when there was no one who could help. And he doubted they could escape if they fled the palace. By now there’d be roadblocks on all the major roads.

  “Get back into the building,” he ordered. The strategy wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do. The king could talk to the attackers, perhaps negotiate . . . Whatever had happened, the colonials would be reluctant to kill their king. He hoped. The rumors had really spun out of control. “And slam down all the blast doors.”

  The communications network hissed. Jackie swore as he ordered his troops to use grenades to cover their retreat, making life difficult for the attackers. Whoever was in charge, back in the palace, should still be in charge . . . damn it. The CO was well trained, but if the communications network was down, the poor bastard wouldn’t have the slightest idea what was really going on. His orders would be worse than useless, if he could issue them in the first place. Jackie tried to be optimistic as they piled their way into the palace, an instant before the remaining blast doors slammed into place. The building was tough. They could hold out long enough for sanity to assert itself . . .

  “Take up sniping positions,” he ordered the remnants of his squad. The CO hadn’t made an appearance, not yet. The local network was down. “And be ready.”

  A dull thud echoed through the building as a mortar shell struck the walls. That wasn’t a problem. Jackie would be quite happy to let them waste ammo by trying to blast down an impregnable sheet of armor. But they’d have plenty of time to come up with something more effective if they got control of the high orbitals. Hell, they could just starve the king out. The bunker below the palace wasn’t self-sustaining. How could it be?

  The intercom crackled, but all he heard was a low hiss. He felt his heart sink still further as his people took up their remaining positions. Without the command network, they were screwed. And then . . .

  We have to hold out. It’s our only hope.

  “How bad is it?”

  Bertram asked the question, knowing with a grim certainty that he wasn’t going to like the answer. Colonel Yuan and his fellow planners had insisted that the palace had to be taken as quickly as possible despite the certainty of civilian casualties. It was starting to look as though their estimates of how many people would be killed or wounded had been absurdly low.

  “We hold the palace grounds,” Yuan said. “But the defenders have retreated into the building.”

  He nodded at the map. “We have overwhelmed the remainder of our targets,” he added after a moment. “The planetary defense installations are in our hands. Our message has already started to go out over the airwaves.”

  “Good.” Bertram let out a breath. “But you don’t have control of the StarCom?”

  “No.” Yuan grimaced. “The structure is still in lockdown. Right now, we’re fighting to take control of the fortresses—or destroy them, if they remain loyal to the king. We might not have been able to take out the king’s communications links to the fleet either.”

  “But the fleet is being torn apart too,” Bertram said.

  “Yes, sir,” Yuan said. “We’re unsure what the final outcome will be.”

  Bertram looked up at him. “Is the secondary assault force ready to go?”

  “Yes, sir,” Yuan said. “We’ve prepped weapons to burn through their armor.”

  “Then send them in,” Bertram ordered. He’d always prided himself on being able to make the hard decisions. He knew, now, that he hadn’t really understood what a hard decision actually was. “Capture the king. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Admiral Ruben has returned, Your Majesty,” a young naval officer said. Francis didn’t know her name. “He’s requesting orders.”

  “At least his fleet is loyal,” the king growled. He was still pacing the room, holding his pistol in one hand. “Tell him . . . tell him to take control of the high orbitals.”

  Francis winced, inwardly, at the expression that crossed the naval officer’s face. There was no way a handful of battlecruisers could regain control of the high orbitals, not when superdreadnoughts and orbital fortresses were locked in mortal combat. Admiral Ruben would be well advised to stay clear of the planet, at least until loyalist ships could be separated from rebels. But there was no way anyone could say that to the king. His mood kept oscillating between a gritty determination to keep fighting, even when the end was in sight, and a deep depression that seemed likely to overwhelm him. He’d said too much about not being taken alive for Francis’s peace of mind.

  He glanced at the live feed from the display, wishing he could speak to his staff. It was hard to be sure what was going on. The reports kept contradicting each other, as if people were trying hard to avoid being the one who had to bring bad news to the king. The superdreadnoughts were loyal. No, they were disloyal. No, the crews were fighting each other, and whoever won would be loyal or disloyal or . . . or what? Francis felt isolated and alone even though he was in a crowd. He should leave, but he knew it was pointless. Even if the king let him go, the attackers were unlikely to permit him to pass through their lines.

  “Fortress Seven has dropped out of the command network completely,” another aide called. “I think they’re withdrawing from combat.”

  “Blow them away!” The king’s voice rose again as he turned to address the speaker. “Crush them!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the aide said. “I’ll pass the orders at once.”

  “They’re prepping another assault,” General Ross said. He indicated the displays, showing a handful of militiamen readying themselves. “Your Majesty, we should move to the bunker!”

  “No,” the king said. He shook his head firmly. “I will not run.”

  You should, Francis thought. An idea crossed his mind. If we were to go elsewhere . . .

  “Call Admiral Falcone,” the king said, seemingly unaware that it was infeasible. He didn’t even seem to realize that it was his orders that had made contact impossible. “Tell her to bring her fleet here.”

  “The StarCom is down, Your Majesty,” the young naval officer said. Francis admired her nerve, even though she was clearly terrified. “We can’t send messages outside the system . . .”

  “Then power it up,” the king snapped. “Now!”

  You don’t have time, Francis thought. The king could issue orders all he liked, but they couldn’t be carried out. By the time Admiral Falcone gets here, you’ll be dead.

  He cursed. The king had few options left now. And unless you listen to me, I’ll die right next to you.

  Jackie frowned as a sudden quiet fell over the building. Even the incessant bombardment stopped. He glanced at his terminal, cursing as the link to the network failed, reasserted itself, and failed again. They were reduced to sending messengers from place to place, as if they’d been sent back in time to the prespace days . . . He shook his head in irritation as he wiped sweat from his brow. Jackie wanted to think the king was talking to the attackers, trying to come to terms, but he wasn’t sure. His instincts told him the quiet was just a pause in the storm.

  He surveyed the lobby, feeling cold. The solid blast doors were firmly in place, but he knew they wouldn’t pose a barrier once the attackers brought up heavy weapons. He’d set a handful of ambushes, positioned men in places where they might . . . might . . . be able to hurt the bastards, but it was just kicking and scratching on the way to the gallows. No one would fault the king for surrendering now, not when his defenses were so badly weakened. But would surrender be accepted?

  A messenger popped up beside him. “Sir, they’re r
eadying another attack.”

  Jackie gritted his teeth. He’d thought as much, but it was still irritating to have his fears confirmed. “Any word from the king? Or the general?”

  “Hold to the last,” the messenger said. He shrank back as Jackie glared at him. “I . . .”

  A low rumble ran through the building. Jackie glanced up just in time to see a chandelier detach itself from the ceiling and plummet to the ground. It didn’t even have time to smash itself on the floor before the blast doors glowed red and exploded, pieces of superheated metal flying in all directions. Jackie saw, just for a second, something very bright moving towards him . . .

  . . . and then the world went away in a brilliant flash of light.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CALEDONIA

  The bridge hatch exploded inwards.

  Sarah ducked behind the command chair as a pair of shock grenades exploded, sending arcs of blue-white light crackling in all directions, then popped up and opened fire. The bridge pressure dropped alarmingly as air rushed into the vented section beyond, pushing the attackers back as the bridge crew shot them down. Sarah felt her ears pop, but she ignored the stab of pain as the last of the attackers fell. A handful of her crew had been caught by the grenades and were lying on the deck, moaning in pain, but the remainder were safe. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. It was sheer damned luck that Soto had been smart enough not to risk using real grenades on the bridge.

  He probably didn’t know how to take command from engineering. She forced herself to stand. The bodies looked as if they’d been shot repeatedly. They probably had. Her crew knew how to use their sidearms, but they were hardly experts. And now his men are dead.

  She found Soto himself and checked his body, then returned to the command chair. Her crew were taking their places, as if shootouts on the bridge were routine. The thought chilled her. There had been no shortage of shootouts during the last round of mutinies, including a number that had ended with the ship effectively wrecked. Mutiny was becoming a habit . . .