“No,” she said flatly. She supposed she should have been politer, but she was tired and cranky. Besides, she’d never lost herself in hedonism and she wasn’t about to start now. “I’m required to mingle.”
Lord Brenham merely nodded, then walked off. He didn’t show any sign of anger at her rejection, somewhat to her surprise, but she supposed it made sense. A man so intent on chasing bright young things wouldn’t have time to get upset. All he’d need to do was find someone else . . .
“Great between the sheets,” Candy observed. If rumor was to be believed, her string of conquests was almost as long as Lord Brenham’s. “But personality? Skin deep.”
Kat scowled at her. “Is it wrong to want something more . . . personal than a quick fuck?”
“This is High Society, sweetheart,” Candy said gently. “You know as well as I do that marriage, that intimacy, isn’t a matter of choice.”
“I know,” Kat muttered.
It wasn’t something she’d ever expected to have to handle, not when she was the tenth child of Duke Falcone. Peter, Ashley, and Dolly—the three oldest—were the ones whose marriages had been determined by their father, mingling the family bloodline with partners who would bring strength and other assets to the family. Kat’s share of the family bloc was so low that she could marry for love, if she wanted. Maybe it was a flaw in her personality, but she was damned if she was entering a loveless marriage. There was something fundamentally wrong about a match where both partners knew the other was having an affair . . .
The smaller clusters of people started to blur together as Candy moved her from group to group, sometimes clearly showing Kat off, sometimes just listening as the gathered aristocrats discussed the war and its implications. One elderly woman bragged about her grandchild fighting on the front lines; one younger woman talked about her new baby and wondered out loud if he would be conscripted into the military. Kat rather suspected she would wind up feeling sorry for the baby, if she ever met the child; the mother had given birth only a month ago, she gathered, and yet she’d left the baby with the servants and ventured out for a party . . .
At least Dad spent some time with us, she thought. Duke Falcone had been a very busy man and his ten children had suffered, although he had tried to make time for them. Their mother had largely stayed at home, supervising the children as best as she could and commanding a small army of servants . . . which hadn’t stopped Kat and her siblings from running riot, on occasion. What will happen to the poor baby?
“But surely there would be room for peace,” a middle-aged woman was saying loudly. Her shrill voice grated on Kat’s ears. “The galaxy is big enough for the both of us.”
Kat opened her mouth to make a sarcastic reply, but an older gentleman spoke first. “The Theocracy attacked us first, Lady Ella,” he said. “They clearly do not agree that we can coexist; everything we know about them tells us that they cannot tolerate a different society near their own. Their expansion would inevitably bring them into conflict with us, if only because we welcome the refugees fleeing their rule.”
“Some of those refugees turned out to be spies,” another man said.
That, Kat knew, was true. The Commonwealth had taken in everyone, debriefing them thoroughly . . . but a number of spies and operatives had slipped through the net. After the first attacks had died down, every refugee had been hastily rounded up and interned, the innocent as well as the guilty. The innocent would be cared for, she knew, but it would also undermine their faith in the Commonwealth. And, perhaps, the Commonwealth’s faith in itself.
She pushed the thought aside, irritated. The Commonwealth Charter was many things, but it was not a suicide pact.
“You might be interested in this,” Candy said, tugging her towards another group. “And you might even have something to say.”
“Admiral Christian should have continued to press the offensive,” a man said. “In choosing to withdraw from Cadiz, he wasted a chance to smash an entire enemy fleet.”
Kat felt her heart sink as she recognized him. Justin Deveron was an armchair admiral, an amateur student of military history who had never, as far as she knew, served in the military. He was handsome, in a way; his suit was carefully tailored to look like a uniform, suggesting he had served without ever making a false claim. His brown hair was cropped close to his scalp in a spacer’s cut, adding another layer to the illusion. Kat had regrown her long hair once she’d left Piker’s Peak, but most spacers preferred to keep their hair short. It could get in the way when they were on duty.
She groaned, again, as Deveron recognized her. He’d made a name for himself as a gadfly, questioning the Admiralty regularly and posing as an expert; indeed, the fact he’d never served allowed him to claim to be giving disinterested advice and commentary. But it also meant that his statements, at best, were wholly theoretical . . .
“But I believe you were there, Captain Falcone,” Deveron said. There was an easy confidence in his voice that got on her nerves. “Do you believe that Admiral Christian passed up the chance to smash an enemy fleet?”
“Yes,” Kat said, “but . . .”
“The Admiralty saw fit to reward him for abandoning the fight,” Deveron said, addressing the circle. “He ran from Cadiz and they rewarded him . . .”
Kat felt her temper flare. She knew Admiral Christian. More to the point, unlike Deveron, she’d actually been there when he’d made the decision. She knew his reasoning and she agreed with it. So had the Admiralty. Many people had been criticized, in the wake of the First and Second Battles of Cadiz, but Admiral Christian hadn’t been one of them.
She pulled herself to her full height, as if she were standing on her bridge in the midst of combat. “I’m afraid that isn’t quite correct, Mr. Deveron,” she said. It was easy enough to channel one of her more sarcastic tutors from Piker’s Peak. “Your analysis, while superficially accurate, fails to take a number of factors into account. This failure undermines it to the point where it loses relevancy.”
Candy shifted beside her, warningly, but Kat ignored her, never taking her eyes off Deveron.
“You see, in war, there are operational concerns, tactical concerns, and strategic concerns,” she continued, speaking each word clearly. “Operationally and tactically, the combined striking power of 6th and 7th fleets could have destroyed the enemy force. Post-battle analysis suggested, very strongly, that the enemy ships had expended all of their missiles, requiring them to either force a duel at energy range or to abandon the battlefield. Yes, there was a very good chance we could have smashed the enemy fleet or convinced it to withdraw.”
She took a breath, then went on. “However, there was no way to know if that was the sole enemy fleet in the sector,” she said. “We didn’t know—we still don’t know—just how many ships the Theocracy possesses. Attempting the complete destruction of one enemy fleet could have led to the combined force shooting itself dry, just in time for a second enemy fleet to arrive and scatter us. Or, for that matter, to seize other worlds in the sector. The combined fleet was the only deployable mobile force available. Risking it for a dubious goal was not in the cards.
“Retreating from Cadiz was not a cowardly decision. It was a brave decision, purely because armchair experts such as yourself wouldn’t hesitate to call it cowardly. By the time the Admiralty had examined all the sensor records and collected testimonies from everyone on the scene, the opinions of you and the other armchair experts would have filled the datanet with claims that Admiral Christian fled the battlefield and that if you’d been in command no enemy ship would have escaped.”
Deveron stared at her. “But . . .”
“But nothing,” Kat snapped. She allowed her anger to color her voice. “You weren’t there. You weren’t the one on the spot, with everything resting on you, when the decision had to be made. All you can do is carp and criticize, doing it from, at best, a flawed understandin
g of just what actually happened. He had no choice! Admiral Christian did the right thing at the right time, combining the goal of striking a blow against the Theocracy with the urgent need to preserve his command intact so it could hold the line. And, as the Theocracy invaded three worlds and attacked two more, in addition to Cadiz itself, we know he was right. It’s only people like you who say otherwise.”
She turned and stalked off. Candy would probably seek to smooth ruffled feathers, but Kat found it hard to care. The folks on Tyre had assigned Admiral Morrison to Cadiz, then chosen to turn a blind eye to his conduct, even as the storm clouds loomed over the Commonwealth. No doubt Deveron would have praised Admiral Morrison to the skies, even though he’d done more than anyone else to weaken the defenses and make the Commonwealth vulnerable.
I may get in trouble for telling him the truth, she told herself as she made her way back to the waiting aircars, but it was worth it.
CHAPTER TWO
“I seem to recall that there were times when you misbehaved quite badly as a child,” Duke Falcone said the following morning. “You wanted my attention, did you not?”
“Yes, Father,” Kat said, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Her father had ordered her to meet him in his office as soon as she’d woken, without any time for breakfast. “I was feeling neglected.”
Her father’s face darkened. “And are you feeling neglected now?”
“No, sir,” Kat said. She wasn’t a child any longer; she was damned if she was going to tolerate an unsubtle suggestion that she was acting childish. “I’m feeling useless.”
Her father quirked his eyebrows. “I would hardly call the serving officer who saved half of 7th Fleet and then countless lives on Cadiz useless,” he said. “You’re very much a heroine to the population.”
“I am a serving officer in good health,” Kat said flatly. “I should be out on the front lines, not stuck here raising the morale of the civilian population.”
“It is that morale that must be maintained,” her father said. “Should vast numbers of our people despair, should they come to believe that there is no hope of victory, the war effort would be fatally compromised. You standing up in front of a crowd and telling them that the Theocracy can be beaten is important.”
“I know that, Father,” Kat said. What was it about her father that he could reduce her to the mindset of a teenage girl with a handful of well-chosen words? “But I still feel useless.”
Her father sighed. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “And I don’t blame you for wanting to squash that gadfly. But he’s a gadfly with powerful connections and some of them have already been muttering in my ear, warning me that your words might have unpleasant consequences.”
“That . . . gadfly might have connections to whoever was backing Admiral Morrison,” Kat pointed out. “Attacking Admiral Christian might be a way to draw attention away from Admiral Morrison.”
“It’s a possibility,” her father said. He shrugged. “It’s also possible that he really is nothing more than a loudmouth with a handful of political connections.”
“He’s a danger,” Kat said tartly. “The news bulletins from the front aren’t really censored, Father. It doesn’t take much intellectual effort to see that we were caught flatfooted when the Theocracy came pouring over the border . . .”
“We weren’t, thanks to you,” her father said.
“. . . and that Admiral Morrison was primarily to blame,” Kat continued. Morrison had simply refused to even consider the possibility of an oncoming storm, let alone make preparations to meet it. She would have gleefully strangled the man at the time if she’d realized the true scale of the disaster bearing down on them. It would probably have cost her everything, including her life, but it would have saved countless more. “No attempt to cover up the truth is likely to work.”
“You’d be surprised,” her father said. His voice took on a more formal tone. “One might say that Admiral Morrison was guilty of nothing more than trying to do his duty under trying circumstances.”
“One might say that,” Kat said, “but one would be wrong.”
Her father shrugged. “Be that as it may, you have been summoned to the palace,” he said, rising to his feet. “The War Cabinet wishes to speak with you. Don your best uniform, then meet me at the shuttlepad. And make damn sure you pin the Royal Lion to your chest. It should keep some of them from tearing a stripe off you.”
Kat nodded—the Royal Lion was the highest award for bravery in the Commonwealth—and then hurried back to her suite to change. Her maid was already there, laying out her uniform on the bed; Kat sighed—she’d long since grown used to doing everything for herself—and hastily changed her casual wear for the uniform. The maid flustered around her, wiping imaginary dust off her gold braid and shoulder pads, and then stepped backwards as Kat glowered at her. These days, the thought of having someone tend to her felt more than a little absurd.
“You look lovely, my lady,” the maid said. Kat tried to remember the girl’s name and failed. “The very picture of a modern naval officer.”
“Thank you,” Kat said. “I am a modern naval officer.”
The maid scurried away. Kat ignored her as she turned to face the wall and eyed herself in the mirror. The white uniform was deliberately designed to be uncomfortable, she was sure; she’d never met anyone who admitted to actually liking the Royal Navy’s dress uniform. The combination of gold braid and her medals looked spectacular, she had to admit, but it didn’t make up for the discomfort. Her blonde hair hung down her back; she tied it up into a long ponytail, then headed for the door. She knew from bitter experience that her father, at least, would not be happy if she was late. He was fond of charting out every last minute he spent awake, but his schedule for the day had already been ruined.
And that will make him look weak, she thought sourly. Countless meetings would have to be rescheduled; hundreds of people’s lives would be disrupted. His enemies will start to scent blood in the water.
It was a bitter thought. She disliked politics as much as she disliked High Society, but she understood the basic principles. King Hadrian had placed an awful lot of power in Duke Falcone’s hands when he’d made Kat’s father the Minister of War Production, and his enemies would be watching carefully, looking for signs that he was either abusing his power or unable to handle the challenge. Kat’s little outburst would have given them more ammunition to use against her father, if they chose to use it. And their forbearance would come with a price.
She gritted her teeth, feeling cold. She’d hoped to spend most of her life away from Tyre, perhaps assigned to patrolling the borders or defending worlds and trade routes against all threats. Instead . . . it struck her, suddenly, that her father’s enemies might seek to exile her, as if sending her away from her homeworld was a punishment. It was an amusing thought, but also a limiting one. She knew, all too well, that her exile wouldn’t be the only price her father’s enemies could extract.
Pushing the thought aside, she walked through the corridors and down to the shuttlepad, where an armored shuttle was already waiting. It was overkill, she was sure, but commandos had launched dozens of attacks on Tyre as part of the Theocracy’s opening gambit for the war. If there were any assault groups left, they might well take advantage of an opportunity to assassinate the Minister for War Production. And Kat herself was probably right at the top of their shit list, save perhaps for King Hadrian. Her lips quirked in bitter amusement. It was hard for her to comprehend that the Theocracy genuinely believed women to be inherently inferior to men, but if it made them feel worse about being defeated . . .
She shook her head as she climbed into the shuttle. Her father was already there, reading a datapad; beside him, Sandra, his personal assistant, had her head cocked as she scanned the datanet. Kat had never liked the woman and had a feeling that Sandra felt the same way about her too, although, as Kat was Duke
Falcone’s daughter, there was nothing Sandra could do about it. Unless she’d deliberately presented the Duke with a warped picture of public reaction . . . no, it would be an insane risk for anyone to take. Sandra would be lucky to escape treason charges if she did anything other than present the exact truth, no matter how unpleasant or embarrassing. Kat pushed the thought aside, then settled back in her chair as the shuttle took off and headed towards the palace. They’d be back on the ground soon enough.
“You’ll be coming straight in with me,” her father said, looking up suddenly. “I imagine they will make arrangements for your return to the mansion.”
“Yes, father,” Kat said.
Her father eyed her for a long moment. “Where is young Davidson?”
“He is currently on training operations,” Kat said. She would have preferred to take her boyfriend to the ball, if only so she would have had someone to talk with that she actually liked, but the Marine Corps had found other work for him. Or had it been her father or Candy, seeking to ensure she’d had to socialize? “He’s due back this weekend.”
“Good,” her father said.
He said nothing else until the shuttle had landed and all three of them had been carefully checked out by a handful of heavily armed Marines. Kat hadn’t visited the Royal Palace very often, but she was quietly horrified by the sheer number of armored Marines and vehicles stationed around the low marble walls. The center of the government had become an armed camp, curled up and waiting for the next attack to begin. She had a feeling that most of it was just window dressing rather than serious preparations to handle an attack. If the Theocracy ever took the high orbitals, Tyre was doomed; the forces defending the palace could be obliterated from orbit if they refused to surrender or melt into the local population and vanish. Or, if the Theocracy didn’t give a damn about civilian casualties, a nuke hidden somewhere in the city could do considerable damage to the entire structure without having to breach the defenses.
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 2) Page 2
