Debt of War (The Embers of War)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

There was a tap on the hatch. Francis sat upright and keyed the bedside terminal, unlocking the portal. No point in trying to claim diplomatic immunity, not now. The cabin was hardly an embassy. Besides, his government might have already revoked his credentials. Thankfully, the king would be as ignorant as Francis himself. It might just give Francis a chance to steer him in the right direction.

  The hatch hissed open, revealing Sir Reginald. The king’s fixer was sporting a nasty-looking black eye. Francis raised his eyebrows, wondering who’d dared lay hands on the bastard. He understood the impulse to beat the toadying scumbag into a pulp, but the king would punish anyone who dared. Sir Reginald was loyal because he had nowhere else to go. But now . . .

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Sir Reginald said. “The king would be pleased to see you in his cabin.”

  “Of course.” Francis stood, brushing his borrowed tunic into some semblance of respectability. His suit and tie had been ruined during the escape. “I’d be delighted.”

  And that is a lie, he told himself as he followed the king’s fixer out the hatch. I don’t want to see him at all.

  He grimaced as they made their way down the corridors. They were lined with makeshift beds, piles of mattresses and blankets hastily assembled to give junior crew and exiles places to rest their heads. Francis could feel eyes boring into his back as he walked, resentful crewmen silently hating him for taking one of the precious cabins for himself. He’d been lucky to get a compartment large enough to swing a cat in. Others hadn’t been so lucky. The king’s ragged fleet was in no state to stop and reorganize. Some ships were crammed to the gunwales with unwanted passengers, while others had empty berths. A shame that most of the exiles were civilians. They couldn’t be put to work to save the day.

  If anyone can. Five guards stood on duty outside Officer Country, two more than he’d seen yesterday. They patted him down thoroughly before calling the duty officer to open the hatch, allowing him access. The king cannot continue the war without help.

  Sir Reginald led him into the king’s cabin. The air smelled . . . funny, as if the life-support system wasn’t fully working. He felt as if he were walking into the lair of a dangerous and desperate animal. The king himself sat on the sofa, his wife clinging to his arm as if she feared he’d vanish if she let go. Francis felt his eyes narrow briefly, wondering just what the relationship between the king and his wife actually was. The House of Lords detested her, for no reason he could see. Drusilla could hardly be blamed for her unfortunate relatives.

  “Your Majesty,” he said. He had no idea if the king could be addressed as a monarch any longer, but there was nothing to be gained by denying him the title. The king was surrounded by allies and servants. If he wanted something to happen to Francis, something would happen. Marseilles would never know they needed to punish the insult. “Thank you for summoning me.”

  The king poured himself a glass from an unmarked bottle. “Shipboard rotgut,” he said as he took a swig. “Do you want some?”

  “No, thank you.” Francis had attended enough tedious formal balls to have a high tolerance for alcohol, but he’d never liked getting drunk. All too easy for one to get tipsy and make a complete fool of oneself. Or say something one really shouldn’t. “I’ve heard vile things about ship-brewed alcohol.”

  “This one probably breaks a few laws on chemical weapons,” the king said. A joke, Francis thought, but it was hard to be sure. “One sip will do horrible things to your gut.”

  “Charming,” Francis said. The morbid side of him wondered just how many problems would be solved, how many lives saved, if the king accidentally killed himself. “Might I suggest, Your Majesty, that we concentrate on affairs of state?”

  “I’ll be returning to Tyre,” the king said. He took another sip. “And that’s the end of the matter. Once Admiral Falcone joins me . . .”

  “You still won’t have enough ships to retake Tyre,” Francis pointed out. It wasn’t what the king wanted to hear, but what he needed to hear. “You must think about the future.”

  He pressed his eyes, noting the flash of comprehension in Drusilla’s eyes. “You cannot win a straight fight, not now. And you cannot hope to lure their fleet out of place. They can just sit tight and wait for your fleet to decay into uselessness.”

  “And so we have to fight!” The king glared at him. “It was your idea to fly to Willow!”

  “Yes, it was.” Francis met his eyes evenly, wondering if he dared suggest the king take a sober-up pill. When he was thinking clearly, the king could plot and plan with the best of them. When he was drunk . . . he came up with ideas like throwing forty-odd starships into a meatgrinder. He might as well have hurled eggs at the enemy fleet. “And it is your only hope for survival.”

  “Really,” the king said. He lifted his glass, eying the translucent liquid. “What do you have in mind?”

  Francis sighed inwardly. The king already knew much of what Francis had in mind. Had he forgotten? Or convinced himself it wasn’t important? Or . . . was he just enjoying making Francis dance to his tune? A man who’d lost power might try to assert it again, even if he couldn’t. Not really. Francis realized that it might have been the king who’d struck Sir Reginald. He might have grown sick of the toady’s toadying. Francis could hardly blame him for that, even though it weakened his position. A man who thought he had nothing to lose had nothing to keep him from turning on his former master.

  “When we reach Willow,” he said, “you declare independence. The border stars will be yours. Marseilles will, of course, recognize you at once. My government will send ships to defend your kingdom. The House of Lords will hesitate to invade when it might trigger a third interstellar war.”

  The king let out an unfamiliar, chilling sound. “And if your people refuse?”

  “Your Majesty, we need those stars detached from the Commonwealth,” Francis said evenly. “We do not mind who holds them, as long as the Commonwealth doesn’t. And it will give us political cover for resupplying your ships and, eventually, giving you a chance to return to Tyre as its ruler. It’s your only hope.”

  And that’s true as far as it goes, he added silently. The king would have his statelet, but he probably wouldn’t be allowed to continue the war. Marseilles wanted time to develop the border stars and open up hyper-routes to the Rim, not get entangled in an endless proxy war with Tyre . . . or, for that matter, a full-scale interstellar war. But you’ll be alive and well and safe. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be invited back to Tyre.

  “You seek to take advantage of me,” the king said. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Francis wouldn’t have been so blunt, normally, but his instincts told him to be honest. “We do want advantages, yes. I won’t try to deny it. But there are advantages to you too. You’d be safe. You’d be in a position to rebuild your fleet and, when you’re ready, resume the war.”

  “A few years of the House of Lords in complete control and they’ll be begging me to come back,” the king said. “Wouldn’t that be funny?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Francis said, playing along. He highly doubted it would happen considering the severity of Hadrian’s crimes, but . . . who knew? The Commonwealth really hadn’t been very good at dealing with the consequences of the last victory. Another couple of victories like that and it really would be ruined. “But you have to be a person of consequence if you want to retake your throne. You have to conserve your power until you can make a decisive move.”

  He waited, resisting the urge to glance at Drusilla. He had a feeling she was going to work on the king in private, to convince him to see sense and accept Francis’s plan. The king would listen too, as long as it didn’t make him look weak. He was no stranger to manipulation techniques. He was starting to think that Drusilla was just as good as he was, if not better. She had access to the king he couldn’t hope to match. His stomach churned. He was bisexual and had to admit the king was handsome, but he was highly undone by what he saw behind that man’s eyes. The k
ing would do anything in pursuit of power.

  And as long as he does what I want him to do, it doesn’t matter. Carving a little statelet out for the king is my only hope of survival.

  “I’ll consider it,” the king said finally. “I’ll let you know when we reach Willow.”

  “I’ll have to send a message as soon as we arrive,” Francis warned. “We must have fleet elements in place to protect you, Your Majesty.”

  Drusilla suddenly spoke. “Why don’t we go deeper into your space?”

  Francis blinked, surprised by the question. He’d never heard Drusilla speak out of turn before. He reminded himself, sharply, that she wasn’t stupid. A woman who could escape from the heart of the Theocracy, a state that regarded women as chattel, was hardly stupid. The odds were she was a lot more ruthless than her husband. She’d known what could, what would have happened to her if she’d slipped just once.

  “We could,” he agreed. “But my government would have to intern your ships the moment they arrived. We couldn’t turn a blind eye to your presence, nor could we provide overt support. There would certainly be no hope of acknowledging His Majesty as a person of consequence. We wouldn’t hand him over to the House of Lords”—probably, he added silently—“but we couldn’t support him either. It would be the end.”

  “And that could not be borne,” the king said. He nodded to the hatch. “We’ll speak soon, Ambassador.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Francis stood. “That we will.”

  William was not given to brooding. He’d spent most of his life on worlds and starships where there was always something to do, even if it was just basic maintenance. Even when he’d reached flag rank, there had been work to do. The shortage of staff officers—trustworthy staff officers—had made sure of it. And yet, now . . . he brooded. He knew he might well be on the verge of making a terrible mistake.

  “Scott was telling the truth,” he said to himself. “But he might have been lied to.”

  He shook his head. Kat wouldn’t stay with the king, not now that she knew the truth. And yet, if she failed to take control of her fleet, or take out the king, all hell was going to break loose again. He couldn’t disagree with her assessment of the situation. The king was going to link up with Marseilles and defy the House of Lords to do something about it. William knew, all too well, that he might just pull it off. The House of Lords didn’t want another war. They’d be happy if Marseilles simply interned the king and his fleet.

  But the king won’t want that. He’ll want to take control of the border stars for himself.

  The intercom bleeped. “Admiral, we’re redlining the drives. Again.” Yagami sounded badly worried. “Monster is signaling that she might have to drop out of formation. Do you want to slow the fleet . . . ?”

  “No.” William shook his head, although he knew Yagami couldn’t see him. “My orders stand. The fleet is to redline its drives all the way to Willow.”

  And hope we get there in time, he thought grimly. He’d run the simulations, but they hadn’t given him any decent answers. It depended on what assumptions he made about the king’s intentions. And . . . there were just too many variables. He had no idea where Marseilles had placed its fleet, or what orders its commanders had if they found themselves on a collision course with Tyre. We have a window of opportunity, but it’s closing fast.

  “Sir.” Yagami hesitated. “Four more ships are having drive problems too.”

  “I am aware of the dangers,” William said. The bean counters would bitch and moan about repair costs, even if he’d won the war. “But if we don’t get to Willow quickly, everything we’ve done will be for nothing.”

  “Yes, sir,” Yagami said.

  William nodded as the connection closed. He understood the younger man’s doubts, but there was no choice. They had to get to Willow before it was too late or the war would continue, perhaps dragging in other interstellar powers. And who knew where it would end?

  The Theocratic War was bad, he thought. Humanity’s first major interstellar war had been nasty but confined to a relatively small section of the galaxy. This will be worse.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  WILLOW

  Kat let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as the fleet opened vortexes and plunged back into realspace, sensors scanning for potential threats. The Willow System had never been particularly important—the planet hadn’t received much in the way of developmental aid, either from the king or the big corporations—but it was right on the border with Marseilles. She frowned as her sensors picked out the king’s fleet, holding position near the planet. No Marseillan ships kept formation with them, as far as her sensors could tell. That was a relief. The presence of foreign ships would have made matters a great deal harder.

  She glanced at Kitty. “Send the message,” she ordered. “And keep the fleet in lockdown.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Kitty said.

  Kat braced herself. Five days of lockdown hadn’t done wonders for anyone, although she’d been able to open a few compartments and recruit crewmen who had reason to suspect the king would turn on them as soon as possible. She’d been lucky to avoid another mutiny, and she knew it. Thankfully, the king would understand her reluctance to unbutton her ships. Who knew who could be trusted, these days? The StarCom orbiting Willow was a mocking reminder that Hadrian’s cause was dead in space. He didn’t have a hope of regaining control.

  Kitty looked up. “Admiral, he’s agreed to meet you in person,” she said. “He’s inviting you to Implacable.”

  Pity he didn’t want to come here, Kat thought. She’d issued the invitation more in hope than any real expectation the king would take her up on it. It would have been so much easier if we’d been able to grab him the moment he stepped aboard.

  “Tell him I’ll be over as soon as possible,” she ordered. “And inform General Winters that we’re about to begin.”

  She touched the sidearm in her holster, feeling cold. She’d made sure to spend some of the last few days in the shooting range, running through a handful of simulations. She was better than she’d thought, but . . . if she got into a shootout with the king’s guards, she’d lose. There was a good chance they’d take her weapon before letting her into his presence . . . She’d tried to think of a way to carry a concealed firearm, but nothing had come to mind. The guards would definitely scan her, even if they didn’t search her physically.

  And then they’d start wondering why I was trying to hide a weapon, she thought as she stood and braced herself. And then all hell would break loose.

  She studied the console for a long moment, silently counting the handful of ships that had remained loyal to the king, then keyed her terminal. “Captain Procaccini, you have your orders?”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Procaccini said. “If we don’t hear from you in two hours, or if they bring up their shields and weapons, we’re to open fire at once.”

  “Good.” Kat let out a breath. “Either way, this ends today.”

  She strode down the corridor to the nearest exit. The shuttle was already waiting for her, the drives powering up. She’d made sure to choose her personal ship, hoping and praying that it would be cleared to dock at the airlock closest to Officer Country. If it wasn’t . . . she had contingency plans, but none of them were particularly reliable. The king’s guards could ruin her plan simply by insisting she land in the shuttlebay, where the shuttle could be inspected with the naked eye. It would be hard to hide the marines clinging to the hull if they flew into the battlecruiser.

  We’ve used the trick before, she reminded herself. Will they watch for it now?

  She took her seat as the shuttle undocked and glided into open space. Kat felt her heart starting to pound as she inspected the king’s fleet, although she knew it was no longer strong enough to pose a serious threat. Four superdreadnoughts, two heavily damaged; eighteen battlecruisers, powerful enough to cause trouble, but not strong enough to do more than annoy their victims; and, beyond
them, twenty smaller ships. They could become an impressive pirate fleet, she supposed, but little more. The superdreadnoughts would rapidly start to degrade if they were denied access to shipyards. The king would be wise, if he wanted to go into piracy, to abandon the capital ships. There was no way he could keep them alive.

  But he thinks my ships are loyal. He may think he still has a chance.

  “We’re receiving orders to dock at the officer’s hatch,” the pilot said. “Should I proceed?”

  “Of course,” Kat said. “No point in delay.”

  She wondered why the king hadn’t moved to one of the superdreadnoughts. Well, it wasn’t her problem. She wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. That would just make life easier for Winters and his marines when they started to sneak into the ship and take control. A superdreadnought would be a far tougher target.

  And their crews might be on the wrong side, Kat reminded herself. A dull thud, followed by a hiss, echoed through the shuttle as it docked with the battlecruiser. Who knows what rumors have been flying through the fleet?

  She stepped through the hatch, her nostrils tightening as she caught a whiff of too many humans in too close proximity. She’d been on pirate ships that smelled like toilets, literally, but she’d never boarded a naval starship that reeked so bad. Even Uncanny had been in better shape. But . . . Her heart fell as she saw the makeshift sleeping arrangements, feeling a twinge of pity for the exiles. They had to think themselves in hell. They’d probably never liked the idea of sharing their bedrooms, let alone being crammed in corridors and holds and . . .

  “Admiral.” Sir Reginald looked as if he’d lost an argument with a door. “His Majesty is delighted to see you.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Kat said, concealing her concern. Sir Reginald sounded like a man who’d simply given up. “Take me to him?”

  He nodded and half stumbled down the corridor. Kat followed, trying to keep her face under tight control. She was no stranger to horror—she still had nightmares about the exodus from Hebrides and the refugee camps on Ahura Mazda—but the sight in front of her gnawed at her thoughts. She knew it could be worse, yet . . . some of the people lying listlessly on mattresses were her peers. They shouldn’t be running like common . . .