Desperate Fire (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 4)

by Christopher Nuttall

  And he can’t stand for reelection, Lucas thought. He’s desperate to make an impact before he loses power.

  It was, he thought, a problem. Tyre was meant to be balanced between aristocrats, who took the long view, and elected politicians who represented the will of the people. The best of the former were often raised to the peerage, where they became single-minded defenders of the aristocratic system. But the politicians, who were limited to ten years in office, always wanted to move forward fast, the only way they could make an impact.

  “All rise,” the prime minister said. “All rise for His Majesty King Hadrian.”

  Lucas rose. The king looked tired but surprisingly determined. Beside him, the prime minister looked concerned. Very little of the agenda for the meeting had been disclosed, which suggested that the king was determined not to give opposition time to materialize. He would pay a political price for that, of course, but he’d clearly deemed it acceptable. And that meant . . . trouble. Lucas rather doubted he was going to like what he was about to hear.

  “Be seated, please,” King Hadrian said.

  He waited until everyone had sat down and coffee had been distributed before he spoke again. “First, I have good news,” he informed them. “After careful negotiation, the Revered Elders of New Pennsylvania have agreed to hand over two of the three main continents on their homeworld to the refugees from Hebrides. They are insistent on maintaining the third continent, the only one they settled, for themselves. The refugees have accepted this condition.”

  Lucas nodded slowly. New Pennsylvania had been settled by Amish farmers from Earth, expelled, like so many others, by the UN. Their population was small, their Commonwealth membership little more than nominal. But they had plenty of unused land, more than enough for the surviving refugees to rebuild their society. Who knew? Maybe the two societies would meet and flow into one.

  Or maybe they would start fighting, Lucas thought. They’re very different at heart.

  “The Royal Estate will make a major commitment to fund the early settlements,” the king continued. “We will also be attempting to pass a bill through Parliament, requesting additional funds from the public purse.”

  Harrison looked irked but said nothing. Lucas could guess at his feelings. Settling a world was expensive, yet helping the refugees to build a new home would be popular, and opposing the bill would be political suicide. He couldn’t even make a show of resistance to satisfy his zealots and then quietly switch to supporting the bill. The king had scored a political point at the opposition’s expense.

  “The Amish do not have food reserves to spare,” the king added. “Thankfully, we can and we will supply enough food to keep the refugees alive until they can start farming the land.”

  Lucas nodded, hastily reviewing the files in his implant. New Pennsylvania didn’t have any facilities outside her atmosphere, save for a handful of satellites the Commonwealth had provided. The refugees were not going to have an easy time of it, no matter how much funding they received, but there was plenty of room for development. A gas giant, plenty of asteroids . . . given time, New Pennsylvania could be turned into an industrial powerhouse. He was marginally surprised no one had taken the system already.

  But we are the closest power in the region, he thought as he made a mental note to get in on the ground floor himself. Colony development projects were long-term investments, but they were almost always solid. Only four colonies had failed in all of human history. No one else was in a position to just take the system.

  “That’s the good news,” the king said. His face twisted. “The bad news is that the war on Ahura Mazda is not yet over.”

  “The war as a whole is not yet over,” Lucas said. “All these declarations of victory are premature.”

  “Our victory is certain,” the First Space Lord said stiffly.

  “It isn’t certain until we win,” Lucas countered.

  The king acknowledged his contribution with a nod. “The report from Ahura Mazda makes it clear that Admiral Christian is dead,” he said. “Commodore Falcone has assumed command of the fleet, as per Admiral Christian’s orders. However, several of her subordinates have filed official protests. Commodore Falcone lacks seniority as well as experience, they say.”

  Lucas cursed under his breath as new reports downloaded themselves into his implants. He’d known that the first reports had arrived, but he hadn’t fully reviewed their content. He was already overwhelmed by his duties. Given what was at stake, he’d prepared himself for everything from the Theocracy surrendering to Ahura Mazda being blown up by its own masters. Stalemate . . . he hadn’t expected a stalemate. But the final messages from Kat and General Winters made it clear that the stalemate wouldn’t be prolonged indefinitely. The groundpounders were already massing for the final campaign.

  “A number of noses will be put out of joint if she remains in command,” the First Space Lord noted. “However, she was Admiral Christian’s choice as successor. General Winters has spoken firmly in favor of her.”

  “Then we should honor Admiral Christian’s last request,” the king said. “Commodore Falcone can be given a brevet promotion to admiral, if necessary.”

  “Which will put many more noses out of joint,” the First Space Lord said. “Commodore Hoskins has both command experience and seniority.”

  Lucas gritted his teeth. Kat hadn’t included a personal message to him in the data dump, but he could guess at her feelings. She wouldn’t back down from the responsibility, even if she feared she wasn’t up to it. The Royal Navy had taught her that, cautioning her that an officer who refused a promotion or a command would never be offered another one. And yet, moving from squadron command to fleet command was a huge jump forward. He wouldn’t have blamed her for having qualms.

  “What sort of message does it send to our fighting men,” Harrison asked, “if someone can be jumped ahead of them just like that?”

  He snapped his fingers. “Admiral Christian was a good man,” he added. “But we shouldn’t honor his request purely because it was his last request.”

  “There’s also the issue of changing command in the middle of a war zone,” the king pointed out coolly. “The enemy fleet is still out there, no doubt massing for a final battle.”

  “Unless the fleet has set out to wreck as many of our worlds as it can,” Harrison countered.

  “We have enough firepower around our worlds to tear them to ribbons, if they try,” the First Space Lord said. “Even c-fractional strikes are unlikely to make an impact.”

  Lucas wasn’t so sure. Intercepting a projectile traveling at a goodly fraction of the speed of light was difficult, particularly if it wasn’t being propelled by a drive field. He had a great deal of faith in the electronic defenses surrounding Tyre and the other worlds, but he also understood their limitations. And the Theocracy had already demonstrated its willingness to commit mass slaughter if necessary.

  The king cleared his throat. “Kat Falcone enjoys my full support and that of the Admiralty,” he said firmly. “Admiral Christian saw fit to put her in command. I see no reason to overrule him now.”

  Really, Lucas thought. And what are you playing at, Your Majesty?

  He contemplated possibilities for a long moment. Kat was famous, no matter how much she tried to avoid the limelight. The king might hope that some of her fame would rub off on him. It had to be frustrating, Lucas admitted privately, not to have had a chance to gain experience and fame of his own. But it was also possible that he was defending the aristocratic prerogative, even though his techniques were clumsy. The prerogative had to be upheld, but not at the price of undermining the entire system.

  But I can say nothing, he thought. I can’t undermine Kat myself.

  The First Space Lord didn’t look happy, he noted. Harrison definitely didn’t look happy. And the prime minister seemed concerned. But none of them were prepared to oppose the king, not on this matter. Lucas suspected their silence boded ill for the future.

&n
bsp; “We can leave the battle and the conclusion of the war in her hands,” the king said bluntly. “We must turn, now, to more important matters.”

  Lucas’s implants popped up a notification. A new file had just been downloaded from the room’s processor.

  “The war may be coming to an end,” the king added, “but the aftereffects will linger for years, perhaps decades, to come. The bill we intend to propose will hopefully alleviate those effects before they can prove fatal to our Commonwealth.”

  The file opened. It was strikingly short for a bill, Lucas noted. That would change, he was sure, when lobbyists started adding various levels of pork to the final version. But he skimmed through it quickly, feeling his stomach twisting uncomfortably. The bill wasn’t a bad idea, he had to admit. And yet, he had a sneaking feeling it would never even get past the first reading.

  Harrison put his doubts into words. “You have got to be joking.”

  The king looked back at him evenly. “Do you find this amusing?”

  Lucas reread the bill. “You are talking about making a major investment in every Commonwealth world, as well as the former Theocratic worlds,” he said. “You plan to install shipyards and industrial nodes, found training colleges and—Your Majesty, do you have any idea how much this will cost?”

  “Yes,” the king said. “But I believe it is an investment we need to make.”

  “I believe that very few MPs will support it,” Harrison said. “Even the Crown Loyalists will hesitate.”

  “We have to reach out to the colonials,” the king said. “All our prewar plans for integrating them into our society were smashed by the war. Right now, we have to make it clear that we are not going to exploit them.”

  Lucas wished, suddenly, that he had seen the bill ahead of time. His analysts would have been able to provide a comprehensive list of the bill’s weaknesses, then offer suggestions on possible amendments that would make it more palatable. But he wasn’t entirely dependent upon his staff. The more he looked at the document, the more apparent the weaknesses became.

  “I understand your feelings, Your Majesty,” he said. “But this level of investment is not only unprecedented, it is dangerous.”

  He went on before anyone could object. “Building new cloudscoops and opening training colleges are daunting alone,” he said. “Investing in tools and supplies is a workable way to kick-start more local industries, but building entire shipyards and industrial nodes—Your Majesty, the market for so much product simply doesn’t exist.”

  “We have a shortage of freighters,” the king pointed out.

  “That’s because of the war,” Lucas countered. “We committed over half of our entire Merchant Marine to support the Royal Navy. Much of the remainder was committed to evacuating Hebrides before the planet died. And yet thousands of new freighters are already coming out of the shipyards. More will be coming when we start downgrading warship production. By the time these shipyards are up and running, the freighter shortage will be a distant memory.”

  “They will be producing other ships,” the king said.

  “No, they won’t,” Lucas said. “They won’t have a market.”

  He tapped the table. “Building up local industries will take time and careful investment,” he said. “Not splashing vast amounts of money around.”

  The king showed a flicker of anger. “You do not feel that we should assist the colonials?”

  “I feel that our assistance should be carefully measured,” Lucas said. “Nothing, Your Majesty, breeds resentment like charity.”

  “And you are talking about a major percentage of our GNP,” Harrison added. “Your Majesty, I do not believe that the population will cheerfully accept such a commitment.”

  He was right, Lucas knew. Plenty of spending bills had failed because of the demands of the war. But that would change, once the war was over. The demand to invest money domestically would become irresistible. Parliament didn’t control all the purse strings, but the king would need Parliament’s support to pass the bill . . . and Harrison was right. Parliament was more likely to kill the bill stone dead.

  He’s inexperienced, Lucas thought. He glanced at the prime minister. Surely, that wily old bird had cautioned the king against overcommitting himself. And he’s too used to getting what he wants on a silver platter.

  The problem was worse, he suspected, than any of them had realized. Tyre’s population wouldn’t welcome competition from off-world. If the king’s plan failed, a vast amount of money would have been wasted; if it succeeded, the market would be flooded with cheap goods that would undermine local production. And that meant . . . what? Trouble, almost certainly. Parliament and the aristocracy would unite against off-world competition.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “this bill will never pass. Let it die, now, before you waste political capital trying to get it through Parliament.”

  The king met his eyes. “Are you saying that you refuse to support it?”

  “Very few people will support it,” Lucas told him. “I suggest you let it die, here and now. It does not have to become public.”

  “I would rather give everyone a chance to consider it,” the king said stiffly. “We’ll meet again, a week from now. By then, perhaps we can make the bill more workable. Until then, please keep the details to yourselves.”

  Lucas rather suspected that the only way to make the bill workable was to tear it up and start again, but he kept that thought to himself as he rose and strode out of the room. Sandra met him outside, looking brisk and efficient as always. She fell into step beside him as they walked back to the aircar.

  “I have an update from the Janus Plant,” she said. “The fault in the production line was a glitched computer matrix. They’ve replaced it and pulled out the rest of the components for testing before deciding what to do with them.”

  “Good,” Lucas said. His mind was elsewhere. Technically, he should call a ducal conference and tell them about the planned bill, but the king had asked him to keep it a secret. If it could be dropped without further ado, there was no reason to spread the news any further. The king’s life was hard enough already. “Tell the managers that I want a full update once the checking process is complete.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sandra said. They climbed into the aircar and took off. “Back to the mansion?”

  “Please,” Lucas said. Where else would he go? He had to consider the bill even if he couldn’t share it with anyone else. “I have a great deal of work to do.”

  He looked down at the city below him as the aircar rocketed away from the palace. The cosmetic damage had been cleared within months of the terrorist attacks, but the city still felt on edge. Tyre had been safe for so long, its competition kept within the rules, that being physically attacked had come as a nasty shock. Lucas knew that the vast majority of the soldiers on guard were unnecessary, but woe betide any government that thought about removing them. The planet no longer felt safe.

  I need a holiday, he thought. The thought of going to the beach and just forgetting who he was, if only for a week or two, was extremely attractive. A long stay in the mountains, perhaps, or a place in the sun.

  “Ashley requests a private meeting,” Sandra added. She sounded oddly amused. “She wouldn’t say what it was about.”

  Lucas nodded. Ashley, his eldest daughter, had taken a position within the Falcone Corporation rather than trying to make her own way in the world. And yet she’d done a good job. Lucas might favor his children, but he wouldn’t have let Ashley keep the post if she’d been bad at it. She was—

  The threat receiver shrilled. “Shit!”

  “Hang on,” Sandra snapped. The aircar lurched. Lucas glanced at the display and swore as the aircar twisted, the autopilot taking evasive action. They’d just been targeted by a ground-to-air weapons system. A sleeper team? He’d relaxed, more than he should have relaxed. Or a terrible accident. Had the local defenses locked on to them? “Sir, I’m going to—”

  There was a fl
icker, right at the corner of Lucas’s eye. He didn’t have time to process it, to realize what it meant, before the high-velocity missile slammed into the aircar, blowing the vehicle into a colossal fireball.

  No one survived.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “I have the latest report, Admiral,” the operator said. “The 34th Superdreadnought Squadron is only at seventy percent effectiveness.”

  Admiral Zaskar nodded without turning his attention from the display. The Commonwealth might have taken out the StarComs, but the orders to muster every remaining warship in the Theocracy had been sent before the network had been destroyed. It was taking time, more time than he cared to admit, to rally the troops, yet the fleet was slowly coming together. They could carry out their mission. And they had to succeed. The entire Theocracy was depending on them.

  “Have engineers sent to assist the crews,” he said. He’d declared that no one would be punished if their ships had problems they couldn’t fix, but he knew from bitter experience that most of his officers probably wouldn’t believe such words. And why should they? Too many officers had previously blamed their subordinates rather than face up to problems caused by their superiors. “And make sure they get a full complement of missiles.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” the operator said.

  Zaskar turned his head to watch the operator scurry away, then looked back at the tactical display. The fleet was lurking five light-years from Ahura Mazda, well out of detection range . . . or so he hoped. He’d read too many intelligence reports that were, that had to be, wildly exaggerated to put too much faith in anything. If the Commonwealth was truly as advanced as some of the reports suggested, the Theocracy had been beaten long before it had actually gone to war.

  They can’t know we’re here, he told himself. They’d have crushed us before turning their attention to the planet.

  He tapped the display, bringing up the latest intelligence report from Ahura Mazda. The majority of the enemy fleet was holding position near the planet, well clear of the defenses on the ground. They had managed to clear a couple of the PDCs, according to his long-range sensors, but not enough to let them bombard the planet into submission. And yet, he knew that would change. The enemy seemed to be massing its forces for the final drive on the Tabernacle. His fleet needed to be ready to intervene before that happened.