Prologue
There was blood on the captain’s chair.
Lieutenant Commander Sarah Henderson tried not to think about Captain Saul as she took his seat. Saul had been a decent old man, for all that he’d been a dyed-in-the-wool reactionary who’d been reluctant to promote colonials when he could promote a Tyrian instead. She’d learned a great deal from the older man, from starship tactics to how to manipulate the system . . . and, perhaps unintentionally, just how badly slanted the system was against colonials. She’d thought, when she’d joined the navy, that there would be room for promotion, that she might climb to a command chair of her own. Instead, she’d discovered that most command chairs were reserved for Tyrians. She’d been lucky to be allowed to stay in the navy after the war had come to an end. She wasn’t blind to the simple fact that most of the officers who’d been placed on half pay, transferred to the naval reserve, or simply let go had been colonials. The old resentment had curdled long before the civil war had broken out. She was good enough to fight, to risk her life, but not good enough to be promoted into a command chair of her own.
She took a long breath as she studied Merlin’s display. The mutiny hadn’t been planned, not really. Sure, there had been times when she’d thought about taking the ship for herself, but it had been little more than an idle fantasy. Where would she go? A Warlock-class heavy cruiser was designed for long-duration missions, but Merlin would need a refit sooner or later. And what would she do? She hated pirates too much to become one, and there was little else she could do. But now . . .
It had happened so quickly, so quickly that part of her still couldn’t believe that it had happened. It had been sheer goddamned luck that she’d been manning the communications console when the message came in, sheer goddamned luck that she’d been able to copy the message to a datapad and erase all traces from the message stream before Captain Saul or his XO had been able to see it. The orders had been clear—and devastating. All colonials, all naval personnel who weren’t from Tyre itself, were to be rounded up and held prisoner until they could be transferred to holding facilities on a penal world. Sarah had no idea what had prompted the message, not then, but she’d seen an awful truth in the cold, hard words. She could fight, she could take control of the ship . . . or she could go tamely to her fate.
And my ancestors didn’t tame their new home by being tame, she thought. She’d linked up with a dozen others, put together a plan at desperate speed, and taken the ship. The remainder of the crew—Tyrians, or colonials she couldn’t vet personally—had been put into lockdown, where they would stay until . . . She didn’t know. She honestly had no idea where to take her ship, not now. If I go home, what happens then?
She felt a worm gnawing at her heart as she paged through the starcharts. They were committed now. They had been committed from the moment the mutiny stopped being a theoretical exercise and turned deadly. There would be no mercy if the navy caught them. They’d be lucky if they were merely dumped on a penal colony, with a handful of supplies; they’d be more likely to be put in front of a firing squad and shot, their bodies unceremoniously cremated and the ashes dumped in the nearest sea. She knew they were committed . . . and yet, what were they to do?
A hundred ideas ran through her head. She could take the ship to her homeworld, but what then? The planetary government wouldn’t be pleased to see them. They’d have no choice but to hand Sarah and her comrades over to Tyre for trial and execution. And even if that hadn’t been a concern, the only thing that linked her and her comrades together was that they were all colonials. They came from a dozen different homeworlds. In hindsight, she wondered if that had been deliberate. The navy might have intended to spread its colonial recruits out as thinly as possible, just to keep them from developing any sort of planetary camaraderie. They were united by their dislike and resentment of the Tyrians, but disunited by everything else. No one would agree on where to take the ship if she put it to a vote.
And we shot the command structure to hell when we launched our mutiny. Her lips twitched in bitter amusement. Who would back me if I tried to impose my authority by force?
Sarah gazed around the bridge. There were only four officers on duty, three men and a woman she’d known for the last two years . . . but how far could she trust them? Really? She hadn’t been the only officer to want to climb the ranks, no matter how hard the authorities tried to keep her down. She was only the nominal commanding officer, even though she’d planned and executed the mutiny. She’d set more than enough precedent for her mutineers to mutiny against her . . .
Lieutenant Olaf, the communications officer, glanced back at her. “Captain, we’re picking up a push message from the local StarCom.”
Sarah felt her expression harden. “Another one?”
“Yes, Captain,” Olaf said. “It’s being pushed out everywhere.”
“Show me.” Sarah let out a breath. It had been a push message that had started the whole goddamned affair in the first place. “We may as well hear the bad news directly.”
King Hadrian’s face appeared on the display. Sarah watched, feeling a multitude of emotions. The king had been the strongest supporter of the Commonwealth, before and during the war; he’d been the only one fighting for the Commonwealth on Tyre while the dukes and duchesses had been trying to draw back as much as possible. Sarah knew—it had been on all the newscasts—that the king had been pushing for more integration, for more investment . . . for everything that would make the Commonwealth work. And yet, he’d lost more than he’d won. The House of Lords had been steadily cutting the Commonwealth’s budget. The cornucopia of resources and investment that had been offered to the colonials during the war had dried up almost as soon as the war had come to an end. Sarah had heard the news from home. Jobs had been lost, businesses were failing, banks were collapsing . . . They’d thought the good times would never end.
But they did, Sarah thought. We really should have known better.
She listened to the king’s message with a growing sense of disbelief. The king had been forced to flee his homeworld? The king had been declared an outlaw? The king had led his loyalists to Caledonia, where they had established a government-in-exile . . . a government that claimed to be the legitimate government? And hundreds of ships, hundreds of thousands of loyalists, were rushing to join him, to fight for their rights against the cabal that had captured Tyre? It was madness . . .
But she’d heard the rumors. She’d seen the signs that all was not well. Perhaps, just perhaps, the outbreak of civil war was a matter of time.
Had been a matter of time, she corrected herself. The message ended with an appeal to loyalists, inviting them to join him. The civil war is already here.
She supposed that explained the message, the one that had sparked the mutiny. The king’s loyalists must have been seizing ships, if they hadn’t been in command already. His enemies would have moved to stop him . . . She had a vision, suddenly, of superdreadnought bridges being torn apart by gunfire as loyalists battled for control of their vessels. Merlin wouldn’t be the only ship that had been taken by mutineers. There would be others. She hoped there would be others.
“We have to go,” Lieutenant Vaclav said. “Where else can we go?”
Sarah contemplated her options carefully. They were painfully few. She couldn’t surrender, not now. She couldn’t take her ship to her homeworld, not without risking a mutiny or being arrested as soon as she arrived. She couldn’t abandon the ship without risking being caught the moment she passed through a bioscanner. She couldn’t become a pirate or mercenary or anything else without . . . She looked down at the uniform she wore. She liked to think it still meant something, even though it was splattered with blood. The king wasn’t just their best option. He was their only realistic option.
There was nowhere else to go.
“Nowhere,” she said. She straightened up in the command chair. “Set course for Caledonia.”
“Aye, Captain,” Vaclav said.
And hope to hell we don’t get intercepted along the way, Sarah thought as she felt her ship thrumming to life. They could have set up a blockade by now if they had time to get organized.
She kept her face impassive, keeping her doubts to herself. The StarCom network wasn’t known as the net of a trillion lies for nothing. Even with the latest advancements in interstellar FTL communications, with messages relayed through a dozen nodes rather than simply radiating out of Tyre, it was still possible for someone to take control of the network . . . or simply use it to spread lies. There was no way to tell the difference between truth and lies, not from a distance. They were possibly flying straight into a trap.
But we have nowhere else to go, she thought. We’ll just have to do our best to avoid contact until we reach Caledonia.
Chapter One
Caledonia
“Transit complete, Admiral,” Lieutenant Kitty Patterson said. “We have reached Caledonia.”
“Transmit our IFF codes,” Admiral Lady Katherine Falcone ordered. She felt numb, too tired and worn to be relieved that they’d finally reached their destination. “And keep the vortex generator in readiness.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Kitty said.
Kat sat back in her chair, one hand brushing blonde hair out of her face. It had been a nightmarish voyage, even though the task force had avoided enemy contact . . . enemy contact, damn it. Thinking of her comrades as enemies hurt deeply. She knew there would be ships and crews that had remained loyal to the House of Lords, commanding officers who owed their positions to patronage or crews that simply didn’t understand what was at stake . . . She knew it was only a matter of time before fighting broke out in earnest. The brief exchange of missiles at Tyre had made it clear, brutally, that the time for talking was over. The dispute could be settled only by war.
She forced herself to watch the display as more and more icons flashed to life, heedless of her churning thoughts. Everything had happened so quickly. She’d known trouble was brewing, everyone had known trouble was brewing, but she hadn’t expected a descent into violence and civil war. She hadn’t expected to have to make a choice between supporting her king or her family. She hadn’t expected . . .
None of us expected this, she thought. And perhaps, if we’d taken the possibility of war more seriously, this would never have happened.
She gritted her teeth as her sensors picked out massive orbital fortresses, each one packing enough firepower to give a superdreadnought a very bad day. The king had been confident that Caledonia would side with him—he’d been pouring resources and investment into the colony world for years—but Kat didn’t dare take it for granted. If Caledonia sided with the House of Lords instead . . . She shook her head. She wasn’t blind to just how badly the colonials had been treated, even during the war. It was unlikely that anyone on Caledonia would feel any real allegiance to the House of Lords, whatever they felt for the king. She knew many of them would want to sit on the sidelines and do as little as possible for either side.
“They’re hailing us,” Kitty said. “They’re requesting permission to speak to the king.”
“Relay the message to him,” Kat ordered curtly. “And order the fleet to hold position here.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
This would never have happened if my father had survived, Kat thought glumly. Lucas Falcone had been a stiff-necked old bastard, but he’d been a man. He’d understood the importance of winning the peace as well as the war, the dangers of constantly slashing budgets and cutting spending when people were desperate. He’d understood that desperation could lead to war. And he would never have pulled ships out of the occupied zone until peace was firmly established.
She let out a breath, feeling sweat prickling down her back. If there was one thing that had angered her, just one thing, it was how the House of Lords had played politics while the occupied zone had burned. She’d watched helplessly as chaos had swept across the region, planets collapsing into civil war or being raided by pirates or simply being hit with genocidal attacks by the remnants of the Theocracy. The war had been won—she’d emerged triumphant from the deciding battle—but the peace had been constantly on the verge of being lost without a trace. Every starship that had been pulled from her command, every marine regiment that had been sent back home . . . Everything she’d lost had meant more dead people, more destroyed lives, more hopelessness and desperation and . . .
We promised those people that we’d protect them, she told herself again and again. And then we abandoned them.
She felt a surge of bitter anger. She’d never got on with her oldest brother, but she’d thought better of him. He’d been an adult when she’d been born, a young man who had acted more like a third parent when he’d had time for her at all. She’d never realized that he would abandon the people the Commonwealth had promised to help. He’d sat in his chair, in their father’s chair, and pronounced a death sentence for hundreds of thousands of people he’d never met and never would. And he’d done it because of politics. He hadn’t had any personal hatred for the dead. They’d simply been collateral damage.
Her console chimed. The king’s face appeared in front of her. “Admiral?”
“Your Majesty,” Kat said stiffly.
“We’re welcome here,” he said. His handsome face betrayed no trace of the concern he must have felt. “Take the fleet into orbit, then join us for a planning session.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Kat said.
The king smiled, warmly. He didn’t look that put out, for someone who’d been forced to flee his homeworld at very short notice. He looked every inch a monarch, from his handsome face to a perfectly tailored naval uniform. But then, Kat supposed he found the outbreak of civil war to be something of a relief. The endless circle of politics, the endless debates over the same issue, time and time again with no resolution in sight . . . over. He didn’t have to argue for hours over the slightest concession, over something that could be withdrawn at a moment’s notice. He could finally command his own ship.
“You’ve done well, Kat,” he said. “Thanks to you, we will thrive.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Kat said. “I have a small matter to attend to first.”
She couldn’t help feeling conflicted as the king’s image vanished from the display. The war wouldn’t just be waged against the House of Lords. It would be waged against her family, against men and women she’d known since she was a little girl . . . She wouldn’t be the only one, she was sure, torn in two. How many people would be asking themselves which side they should take? And how many would try to steer a course between the two until neutrality was no longer an option?
And how many will be laying contingency plans for defeat as well as victory? The thought mocked her. She knew her fellows too well to have doubts. The loudest among them, baying for the king’s blood, will be planning how best to surrender if he wins the war.
She stood. “Order the fleet to enter orbit, as planned,” she said. “And then . . . order all off-duty personnel to assemble in the shuttlebay.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Kitty said.
Kat took one last look at the display—the orbital fortresses were sweeping space with powerful active sensors, but weren’t charging their weapons or launching missiles—and strode through the hatch into her ready room. Her private space, perhaps the only truly private space on the ship. Everyone else was sharing quarters, doubling or tripling up as the king’s staffers and allies crowded onto the ship. Even the king himself was sharing quarters with his fiancée, Princess Drusilla. Kat felt her lips twitch sourly. She didn’t like the princess—her instincts told her Drusilla was trouble, but the king evidently disagreed.
She put the thought aside as she splashed water on her face, changed into a clean uniform, and studied herself in the mirror. The uniform was pristine, her face was clear . . . but her hair was unkempt, her eyes tired. She ran her fingers through her hair. She’d allowed it to grow out over the last few months, when she’d been stationed in the occupied zone, but she’d get a cut close to her scalp as soon as possible. She couldn’t allow herself to grow lax. She’d done too much of that over the last six months.
And we were the most well-drilled unit in the postwar navy, she thought. The rest of the fleet must be much worse.
She scowled, feeling a pang of loss. It was terrifying how quickly standards had fallen once the war had been won. She’d seen too many officers neglect their duties, forsaking drills that taught their crews vital skills; too many experienced officers and crewmen had been pushed out of the service while inexperienced officers with the right connections had been allowed to keep their ranks. Kat had done what she could to arrest that trend during her last deployment. She dreaded to think how badly the other peacetime deployments had neglected the fundamentals. They’d been more concerned with saving money than saving lives.
Maybe William was right to get out when he did, she thought. Leave on a high note.
She wondered, as she walked through the hatch and down the corridor, just what had happened to her former XO. She’d taken him back to Tyre, but . . . He hadn’t rejoined the fleet in time to leave the system. Where was he? Had he been sent back to Asher Dales? Or was he under arrest? William was, technically, her family’s client. What would Duke Peter Falcone, Kat’s oldest brother, have made of him? A hero? A traitor? Or someone who had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Kat wished, in hindsight, that she’d kept William on her ship. It would have been good to have his support over the last two weeks.
A handful of crewmen were hurrying into the giant shuttlebay as she approached, their faces pale. There had been all sorts of rumors flying through the ship, even though there hadn’t been any official announcement of . . . well, anything. A couple of the king’s staffers had complained about the rumors; they’d even demanded she shut the rumormongers down, but Kat had merely shrugged. One could no more stop rumors than one could stop the tide by shouting at it. Sure, she could put a handful of loudmouths in the brig . . . but what then? That would simply suggest—to anyone who cared to look—that the worst of the rumors were true.
“Admiral.” Captain Akbar Rosslyn was standing by the hatch, looking grim. “They’re ready for you.”
Kat nodded her thanks and stepped past him, into the shuttlebay. The giant deck had been cleared, the shuttles and landing craft pushed against the far bulkhead so the crew could gather as a body. Chatter hummed through the air as Kat took the makeshift stand and looked down at the gathered crew. There were hundreds of warm bodies in the shuttlebay, only a fraction of the superdreadnought’s entire crew. The remainder would be on duty or listening in from the other shuttlebays. It took more than three thousand officers and crewmen to operate a superdreadnought.
Although we could do the job with fewer people if we didn’t mind losing efficiency, she reminded herself. A marine sergeant bellowed for silence. A small crew couldn’t fight the ship once she started taking damage.
She waited for quiet, studying the crew. It was strange to realize that the chain of command had been badly weakened over the last two weeks, even though there hadn’t been any serious incidents. She’d studied history. Civil wars weakened the bonds between people, fragmenting society into smaller groups . . . She frowned inwardly. The only thing linking the various colonies together was the Commonwealth itself. If the Commonwealth fell, the colonials would fragment. A chilling thought. The association of worlds she’d sworn to serve was, in many ways, a victim of its own success.
“Two weeks ago, civil war broke out.” Kat kept her voice calm, even though she knew she was giving voice to the worst of the rumors. “The dispute between the House of Lords and King Hadrian turned violent. It is unlikely that the crisis can now be settled by anything but force of arms. I, and this ship, have joined the king.”
She paused, choosing her next words carefully. Some of her crew would fight for her. Others, colonials all, would fight for the man they saw as their ally and protector. Still others would do their jobs without thinking about the wider implications. And others . . . They wouldn’t fight for the king, not against their own people. Or they wouldn’t share the grievances that had kick-started the civil war.
“If you want to join us, to fight for the king, you are welcome. I won’t attempt to influence your choice. You should choose your side for whatever reason makes sense to you. If you don’t want to fight for the king, you can either go into an internment camp on the planet’s surface or travel straight back to Tyre. We will make transport arrangements as soon as possible. You have my word that no one will be hindered if they want to return to Tyre.”
A low rustle ran through the gathered crowd. She didn’t give it time to build.
“Make your choice, whichever one you want to make,” she said. “But whatever choice you make, stick with it. I won’t fault anyone who wants to leave now. Afterwards . . . I need the crew to be united. There will be no chance to switch sides later, once the fighting begins in earnest.”
And anyone who tries to switch sides later will be seen as a traitor, she mused as she surveyed the crowd. And he’ll be lucky if he only spends the rest of his life in the brig.
“If you want to leave, let your section chief know and report to Shuttlebay A by 2100,” she concluded. “The marines will transport you somewhere safe, at least until we can arrange transport. If you want to stay, just remain in your place and resume your normal duties. I will be happy to have you.”
She stepped down and headed for the hatch, ignoring the chatter behind her. She’d meant what she’d said. She wasn’t going to try to influence them, even though she knew she could. The Royal Navy had been an all-volunteer force from day one, when there had been only a handful of destroyers to protect Tyre, and that wasn’t about to change now. Besides, trying to run a navy with conscripts was difficult and dangerous. The Theocrats had found that out the hard way.
And our crewmen are far from ignorant, she reminded herself. A handful of resentful crewers could do a great deal of damage if they decided to rebel instead of submit.
She winced at the thought. She’d never understood how the Theocratic navy had managed to function. There were limits to how far one could brutalize one’s crews before the starships started to fall apart, if the crew didn’t mutiny first. The Royal Navy had never made that mistake, thankfully. Tyre trusted its crewmen. But it also meant the crewmen couldn’t be press-ganged into fighting for either side. Better to lose half her crew than risk having a mutiny at the worst possible moment.
General Timothy Winters met her outside the shuttlebay. “Admiral, we’ve borrowed a colonist-carrier from Caledonia for the . . . ah . . . dissenters,” he said. “They should have no trouble getting home.”
“Good,” Kat said. A colonist-carrier had the great advantage of looking harmless. The defenders of Tyre might be jumpy after everything that had happened, but they were unlikely to slam an antimatter missile into a colonist-carrier, particularly one that was careful not to violate the planetary defense perimeter. “And your men?”
Winters looked impassive. His voice was disapproving. “We had a few desertions, Admiral. But most of my troops chose to remain.”
“It’s important they have a free choice, General,” Kat said, although she knew saying it would be pointless. She’d done her best to keep her thumb off the scales, but she was uneasily aware that there would be people who would feel pressured into making a choice that didn’t sit well with them. “We . . . This isn’t what we signed up for, when we took the oath.”
“No,” Winters said. “But that doesn’t mean we can change our minds when the shit hits the fan.”
Kat shrugged. The Theocracy had been a serious threat when she’d joined up. Everyone—at least, everyone with a gram of sense—had known that war was coming. But no one had seriously expected a civil war, not back then. It was unreasonable to expect everyone to be happy with the prospect of firing on their own people. She would have been seriously worried about anyone who was.
“Don’t pressure anyone,” she said. “Just . . . give them the same chance.”
She nodded, then walked down the corridor. The next few days were going to be very busy. She would have to reorganize everything from crew rotas to squadron formations, transferring officers and crewmen all over the fleet to fill the gaps in her roster. It was going to be a nightmare, even if she could pass most of the work to her subordinates. She wondered, sourly, what she’d do if her staffers chose to go home. She’d never really understood how important staff officers were until she’d been promoted. Someone had to turn the commanding officer’s orders into reality.
Two of the king’s personal guardsmen were on duty outside the VIP section. They checked her identity and scanned her for concealed weapons, then waved her through the hatch. Kat snorted at their paranoia, although she understood their concern. The superdreadnought was an alien environment, manned by crewmen who hadn’t been thoroughly vetted. Who knew how many crewmen might try to end the civil war by murdering the king?
“Admiral,” a quiet voice said as she passed through. A short man was standing by the king’s cabin, waiting for her. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Two
Caledonia
Kat didn’t know Sir Grantham that well.
He was one of the king’s privy councilors, one of his foremost advisers, but he and Kat had hardly shared the same social circles. He’d been knighted at some point, suggesting that he’d done the kingdom some service, yet the act hadn’t made the news. Kat knew there was a lot that didn’t make the news, of course, but she should have heard whispers if it was something classified. The fact she hadn’t heard anything meant . . . what? She didn’t know.
And she didn’t really like him. She wasn’t sure why. He was handsome, in a bland way that suggested he’d had cosmetic surgery rather than having his genetics engineered or relying on blind chance. His brown hair and wry smile made him look warm and friendly, although there was an edge to his posture that suggested it was an act. Maybe she was bothered by the hints of sycophancy, of a social climber trying to make his way to the top through any means necessary. God knew she’d met enough social climbers in her early life. She could have surrounded herself with a small army of sycophants from birth if she’d wished.
But he is completely dependent on the king, Kat reminded herself, as she allowed Sir Grantham to lead her into a small conference room. He has no independent power base or wealth of his own.
The thought stung, more than she’d expected. She didn’t have an independent power base now, insofar as she’d ever had. She’d been her father’s client, for all intents and purposes; now, technically, she’d betrayed her family by siding with the king. Her trust fund had probably been confiscated, at least until she gave a full accounting of herself and sought her family’s forgiveness. The thought made her snort. Her brother had never liked her. He’d sooner see her starve than forgive her . . .
She rested her hands on her hips as she turned to face Sir Grantham. “What do you want?”
Sir Grantham looked, just for a second, unsure of himself. “We have to talk,” he said finally. The hatch hissed closed behind them. “We . . .”
“Then talk,” Kat said. She had too much to do. The fleet had to be reorganized, the crews had to be shunted around . . . She simply didn’t have time for a long and pointless chat. She’d never liked high society’s habit of using ten words when only one would do, and she had no intention of embracing it now. “What do you want?”
“You’re sending half your crew back home,” Sir Grantham said. “Back to the enemy.”
The enemy, Kat thought. A month ago, everyone had been on the same side. It was hard to believe that the Commonwealth was now irreparably split in two, that they were about to start shooting at each other. We’re already thinking of them as the enemy?
She kept her face carefully blank. “Yes. So?”
Sir Grantham flushed. “You’re giving aid and comfort to the enemy!”
Kat took a long breath. “Would you rather I kept unwilling crewmen on this ship?”
“You shouldn’t have sent them back to Tyre,” Sir Grantham said. “I . . .”
“Let me put it to you as simply as I can.” Kat met his eyes, silently daring him to look away. “Spacers, soldiers, marines . . . They’re not machines. None of them signed up to fight their former comrades. None of them. They joined to defend the Commonwealth or fight the Theocracy or simply because they wanted adventure and excitement . . . They didn’t join up to fight a civil war. And we dragged hundreds of thousands of crewmen all the way to Caledonia without so much as asking if they want to join us.”
“They should follow orders,” Sir Grantham insisted. “They’re paid to—”
“Legitimate orders.” Kat cut him off. “There’s no provision in the Articles of War for civil war. They didn’t know they would be fighting their former comrades when they joined up.”
“And so you want to send them back home?” Sir Grantham sounded astonished. “You should keep them here . . .”
“And then what?” Kat held his gaze. “There will be—there are—crewmen in this fleet who don’t support the king. What am I meant to do with them? Hold mass executions? Throw them out the airlock? Dump them on a penal world? You know what? I don’t even know which members of my crew might support the king! Perhaps I should just start shooting crewmen at random.”
Sir Grantham flushed. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Kat corrected, coldly. “Please. Enlighten me.”
“The crewmen you’re sending home will join the enemy,” Sir Grantham said. “You’re helping them to . . .”
Kat let out a long breath. “First, it probably doesn’t matter. The House of Lords is not short of manpower. We’re not going to be sending entire squadrons of superdreadnoughts into their welcoming arms. They will have no trouble mustering a fleet, if we give them time, with or without the crewmen we’re sending back. It simply does not matter.
“Second, and I want you to think carefully about this, what sort of message do you think it sends to everyone, the people on both sides, if we don’t let our crews vote their conscience?”
She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “I’ll tell you what sort of message it sends. It suggests that we don’t give a damn about the people who fight for us, that we are willing to press-gang crewmen into fighting for us . . . that we are dragging people who have nothing to do with our fight—who don’t want anything to do with our fight, who don’t give a damn who comes out on top—into our fight. That we are forcing them to fight for us. Do you really want a mutiny? Or someone trying to sabotage the ship?”
“They’ll follow orders,” Sir Grantham insisted.
“It only takes one person to cause a great deal of trouble,” Kat said. “If we force people to fight for us, they will resent it. They will see us as the enemy even if they see our cause as right. The ones who don’t really care about our cause will sympathize with the ones who see us as the enemy, because we press-ganged them into fighting for us. We cannot afford to treat our crew as slaves. Slaves can revolt.”
She sighed inwardly, knowing he wouldn’t understand. He’d probably grown up among the lesser aristocracy, at a guess, the ones who obsessed over status and social precedence, the ones who snapped and snarled whenever someone of lesser birth threatened to climb past them . . . the ones who clung to their social pretensions because they simply didn’t have anything else. To them, the servants—their butlers, their maids, even their bodyguards—were just tools. The idea that they might have thoughts and feelings of their own was alien to them.
“I did what I had to do,” she said, firmly. “This way, we know that the people who fight for us genuinely want to fight for us. And the remainder of the crew will know it too. It will be harder, much harder, for any dissenters to plot a mutiny or sabotage the ship.”
“You weakened us,” Sir Grantham protested.
Kat allowed her gaze to sharpen. “I would sooner take an undermanned ship into battle than risk having my crew turn on me,” she said firmly. “And I will not betray my crewmen by forcing them into a war they didn’t volunteer to fight.”
“We have to win,” Sir Grantham said. “And that means . . .”
“. . . Not doing things that might cost us the war?” Kat strode past him. “I am in command of this fleet. If you have a complaint about the way I do things, take it to His Majesty. He can tell me what he thinks of your complaints.”
She stopped by the hatch, slowly turning to face him. “And if you try to interfere with the off-loading, I will break you.”
Sir Grantham purpled. Kat was sure he was trying to think of a response, of a crushing remark that would send her to her knees, but she didn’t give him time. Instead, she turned back to the hatch and walked through. The hatch hissed closed behind her, leaving him in the conference room. She wasn’t really surprised he hadn’t tried to follow her. She’d put him in his place.
I sounded just like my cousin, Kat thought sourly. She’d never really liked Cousin Olivia, who’d married well and didn’t let anyone forget it. And she would have been a great deal nastier as she cut him off at the knees.
Her lips twitched as she made her way down the corridor, passing a handful of open cabins where the king’s staffers and closest supporters, the ones who couldn’t remain on Tyre without being arrested or forced into exile, were making their preparations to disembark. Kat’s crew would be glad to see the last of them. The superdreadnought was no Supreme, no interstellar liner with gold-plated bulkheads and staffers willing to do anything, anything at all, for a hefty tip. Kat had had to put one of the aristocrats in the brig for harassing a young crewman. The dumb bastard hadn’t realized, somehow, that he wasn’t in his estate any longer. Or, for that matter, that no one had to put up with his conduct. He’d been lucky not to have his lights punched out.
A pair of servants hurried past her, carrying a large trunk. Kat wondered idly what its owner had packed, then decided it probably didn’t matter. The king himself had packed well—he’d been one of the few people to realize he might have to leave Tyre—but the others hadn’t had much time to think about such eventualities. Kat had read the security reports. Some of the aristocrats had brought clothes and money, in a number of interstellar denominations; others, less practical or simply caught on the hop, had brought everything from shooting gear, as if they were going on safari, to works of art and other absurd comforts. She found it hard to believe that anyone could be so stupid.
But I suppose they could sell the paintings, if they desperately needed money, she reflected as she reached the final cabin. They’d just have to find a buyer . . .
She pressed her hand against the scanner and waited. The king’s guardsmen had been horrified when it had dawned on them that it was difficult, very difficult, to keep the superdreadnought’s crew out of Officer Country. The superdreadnought was no luxury liner, with firm lines between first-, second-, and steerage-class passengers. The guardsmen had wanted to seal off the whole section, but the king had overruled them. Kat rather suspected her old friend was enjoying his freedom, such as it was. He’d never sailed on a superdreadnought before.
The hatch hissed open, allowing her to step inside. The quarters, designed for an admiral, were palatial by naval standards, which hadn’t stopped some of the aristocrats from openly wondering if they’d been dumped in midshipman cabins. Kat honestly hadn’t known if she should laugh or cry when she’d heard the complaints. Midshipmen, even aristocratic midshipmen, could only dream of having a boxy compartment to themselves. They simply didn’t have enough room to swing a cat.
And they have to share it with a handful of others, Kat reflected. She’d enjoyed her first cruise, but the lack of privacy had grated on her. They would kill just to have the compartment to themselves.
She looked around the compartment, feeling an odd twinge of discomfort. The quarters had been hers a couple of weeks ago. She’d moved into her ready room to provide space for the king, his princess, and his attendants. They hadn’t changed the compartment much, she noted, save for the handful of boxes stacked awkwardly against the far bulkhead. The portrait of her father she’d hung on one bulkhead hadn’t been removed. She wondered, grimly, what her father would have thought of the civil war. It was hard to believe that the situation would have spun so badly out of control if her father hadn’t been assassinated at the end of the war.
The last war, she reminded herself. She’d never really been at peace, even after the formal end of the Theocratic War. How quickly we forget.
A hatch opened. She straightened to attention as the king stepped out of the bedroom, wearing his carefully tailored naval uniform. He looked good in it, Kat had to admit, although he’d never served a day in his life. His advisers hadn’t either, she guessed; he might not know it, but he didn’t hold himself like a naval officer. His posture was a little too sharp, his bearing a little too authoritative. But he’d look good on the holovid, she supposed, and that was all that mattered.
“Kat,” the king said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Your Majesty,” Kat said.
She bobbed her head. They’d known each other since childhood, although the demands of their respective social classes had kept them from being too close. And she was a privy councilor in her own right. She had the right to call him by his first name, if she wished. But she knew better. They had to tend to the formalities, now that the established order was starting to fracture. They had to keep telling themselves that very little had changed. Who knew? Perhaps the pretense would be enough to make it so.
The king grinned. He’d always been handsome, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a roguish look that had melted more than one heart. Kat had heard the rumors about the king’s girlfriends, although none of them had ever been confirmed. It was hard to take them on faith when she knew the rumors that the king had engaged in an affair with her were complete fabrications. Her lips twitched at the absurd thought. An affair with the king? She was sure she would have noticed if she’d had an affair with the king. She liked and respected him—not least because he was the only one who’d fought for colonial rights—but they’d never been more than friends and allies.
“I hear that you’re disembarking some of your crew,” the king said. He gave her a reassuring smile. “I quite understand.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Kat kept her face impassive. “Sir Grantham has already tried to tell me off for it.”
The king shrugged. “Some of my advisers feel that it is a mistake.”
“Keeping them would be an even greater mistake,” Kat pointed out, again. “We don’t want people who haven’t committed themselves to our cause.”
She shook her head in irritation. She had little patience for politics, for endless debates over pettifogging issues when there were real problems on the horizon. Politicians seemed to produce nothing these days but hot air . . . while real people were robbed, raped, and murdered. Her father, at least, had been an exception. She wondered, bitterly, why he hadn’t taught his oldest son the difference between important matters and petty politics before it was too late. The king might have been inexperienced, at least before the Theocratic War, but at least he had a good head on his shoulders. He knew not to waste time with nonsense.
“Quite,” the king said. “There will be others who will join us, of course.”
“Of course,” Kat echoed. The Commonwealth had been fracturing into two camps well before the shooting had actually begun. Now . . . Everyone who wanted to fight would be heading to Caledonia. “Why do you keep him around?”
The king blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sir Grantham,” Kat said. She knew why most of the privy councilors had been chosen, but Sir Grantham was a mystery. “Why is he on the privy council?”
“He’s a fixer,” the king said, simply. “He gets things done for me.”
“Ah,” Kat said.
The king’s smile grew wider. “I’ll be transferring myself to Caledonia this afternoon,” he told her. “The people down there”—he jabbed a finger at the deck—“have already laid on a reception, after which we will discuss reclaiming Tyre before our enemies rally their troops and prepare for war. You’ll be joining us?”
“Of course,” Kat said. “It would be my pleasure.”
That was a lie. She would have preferred to remain on her flagship, but she knew it wasn’t really a request. Besides, she would have to ensure that the king and his councilors didn’t come up with a plan that looked good on paper but would fail spectacularly the moment someone tried to put it into practice. She’d seen enough problems caused by armchair admirals not to want to let the councilors dictate the course of the war. They were good people, in their way, but they were not experienced military officers. She shuddered to think how many lives had been lost, during the last war, because too many officers had never fought a real war.
“Very good,” the king said. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
“We’ll see,” Kat said. She was pretty sure that was a lie too. “But I don’t have much time to waste. I’ll be needed back aboard ship fairly soon.”
“We have time,” the king said. He sounded confident, for someone who had never witnessed combat from the flag deck. “It will take them weeks, perhaps months, to organize themselves for war.”
“Yes,” Kat said. True, as far as it went. But her duty consisted of pouring cold water on his thoughts. “And it will take us a long time too.”
Chapter Three
Caledonia
Caledonia, Kat recalled, had been a surprisingly well-developed world when the Commonwealth’s expanding border had washed through its system. Indeed, in many ways, Caledonia had been an ideal candidate for membership. The system had a small but growing industrial base, a thriving educational base, and a handful of freighters plying the spacelanes, helping to reinvigorate interstellar trade. But Caledonia had been hampered by the Commonwealth itself. Tyre had seen Caledonia as a rival, a potential threat; Tyre had manipulated the Commonwealth’s structure to ensure that Caledonia would always be second-best. Kat rather suspected the move had been nothing more than petty, pointless evil. In the short term, it had worked; in the long term, an entire planet had become enraged and united against Tyre.
And the king was able to position himself as the protector of the small, Kat thought, as they finally, finally, headed for the royal residence. The entire planet loves him.
She didn’t blame the planet for welcoming the king, their savior. It had been the king who’d insisted on establishing shipyards and industrial nodes at Caledonia, the king who’d invested trillions of crowns in the planet’s infrastructure . . . the king who’d argued for the planet to be heavily defended, who’d pushed for defending every planet in the Commonwealth even though such measures prolonged the war. The contradiction amused her more than she cared to admit. Caledonia loathed Tyre but adored Tyre’s king. He could literally get away with murder, as far as the locals were concerned. He’d worked hard to earn their goodwill.
Kat felt tired, a deep, aching tiredness that pervaded every inch of her body. She detested formalities, but ever since the shuttle had landed, there’d been nothing but formalities. An endless series of speeches from local dignitaries, all of which had blurred together in her mind, followed by a long parade, where everyone on the planet seemed to want to shake the king’s hand or meet his eyes. She hadn’t been the only one, surely, who worried about what a lone gunman could do when the king was in the open. A sniper could have put a bullet through the king’s head with ease if he’d had the chance. The security cordon had been almost pitifully weak. She was relieved when they finally entered the palace, leaving the crowds behind. And yet, part of her wanted only to return to the ship. The latest set of updates had suggested she’d lost a third of her crew.
It could have been worse, she told herself as the staff showed them into the conference chamber. We could have been stuck with all officers and no crewmen.
She looked around the chamber, not bothering to disguise her interest. The space was quite efficiently designed, certainly in comparison to the conference rooms back home. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and a painting of the previous king hung on the far wall, but otherwise the chamber was strikingly modern. There had been no attempt to hide the holoprojector or the drinks cabinet, no attempt to pretend that the chamber dated back to a bygone age. Kat had always found the pretensions amusing, when they hadn’t been awkward. There wasn’t a person alive who remembered the days before FTL travel and high technology. She didn’t think there was anyone on Tyre who’d been born on Old Earth.
A serving girl wearing a strikingly conservative uniform offered her a mug of coffee. Kat took it gratefully, nodding her thanks. The servants looked pleased to be fawning on the king—although, the cynical part of her mind noted, their fawning wasn’t quite up to Tyrian standards. She wondered, as the servants were shooed out of the chamber, just how they’d cope with the king and his court. Too many people in his retinue were used to taking their servants for granted.
And he’ll have to deal with it, somehow, she thought. The king might be popular and lauded, but that wouldn’t last. If he wore out his welcome, the planet might turn on him and his followers. Kat had no illusions. Caledonia’s orbital fortresses could blow the hell out of her fleet if they opened fire at point-blank range. We’ll have to do whatever it takes to keep them onside.
Sir Grantham rose. “Ladies and gentlemen, the king!”
Hadrian waved for his councilors to remain in their seats, then leaned forward. “We are at war,” he said. “The time for talking is over. The issues between us, between the Monarchy and the House of Lords, can only be settled by violence.”
He lowered his voice. “The universe does not care who is in the right, my friends. The universe doesn’t give a damn if our cause is just, if we are righteous souls; we do not have the strength of ten because our hearts are pure. There is no time, now, for debating the rights and wrongs of the situation. The time for talking is over. This is the time of war. Might may not make right, as many have argued; might determines what happens. The winners of this war will be the ones who determine what is right.”
Kat shivered, despite herself. She knew he was right.
“There is no room for compromise,” the king continued, coolly. “We cannot come to terms we, or they, would find acceptable. Either we win and impose our will on them, or they win and crush us. There is no middle ground. We will not negotiate with them on major issues, because there is no way to come to terms. We will discuss minor issues with them, such as trading our loyalists for theirs, but nothing else. I want everyone to be absolutely clear on this. We are at war. There is no room for half measures.”
There was a long, chilling pause. Lord Gleneden spoke first.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “Are you proposing that we fight an uncivilized war?”
Kat winced. Lord Gleneden had always struck her as being conservative, so conservative that she was surprised he’d remained on the privy council, but his expertise as an economist was unmatched. He’d worked closely with Kat’s father when they’d prepared the Commonwealth for war. And he’d served the king’s father, practically from birth. He might be conservative, but he wasn’t disloyal.
Hadrian looked annoyed. “No. I am making it clear that we cannot reach a compromise that both sides can accept.”
“And how far are we prepared to go?” Lord Gleneden pressed, sharply. “Because we may have an edge in the short term, Your Majesty, but they have the long-term advantage.”
“Then we take advantage of what we have.” Earl Antony thumped the table with one meaty fist. “We move now to retake Tyre and crush our enemies!”
Kat felt a flash of irritation. Earl Antony genuinely did have military experience, but it had been in the planetary militia. He’d never seen real action. And, like all people who didn’t have experience, he underestimated just how difficult it could be in wartime to get the slightest thing done. He’d never had to worry about moving troops from one place to another, making sure they arrived on time and armed . . . He’d never had to actually fight, outside training exercises. He’d done well on the tests, Kat had to admit, but exercises always left out the real emergency. A platoon of Royal Marines would have wiped out a militia regiment before its commanders even realized they were under attack.
“We will fight according to the Articles of War,” she said firmly. “It is important, particularly now, that we honor the rules. This war could easily spin out of control if we don’t.”
“The Theocracy didn’t give a damn about the Articles of War,” Earl Antony snapped. “You should have nuked Ahura Mazda to retaliate for what they did to Hebrides!”
Kat cocked her head. “And how many billions of innocent civilians would have died, if I had?”
“They were enemies,” Earl Antony hissed. “They had no right—”
“I was there.” Kat cut him off, her voice as sharp as a knife. “The average person on Ahura Mazda—male, female, whatever—had no power. They could no more have stopped the war and brought their leaders to heel than I could repeal the law of gravity! And they didn’t deserve to be slaughtered simply because their leaders were utter bastards!”
She met the king’s eyes, willing him to understand. “This is a civil war. The people we will be facing—the people we will be trying to kill, the people who will be trying to kill us—are our people, our friends and families and countrymen. We will have to live with them after the war comes to an end, whoever wins. We cannot hope to win by turning the homeworld, our homeworld, to glass. We have to put limits on what we are prepared to do to win.
“If nothing else”—she allowed her eyes to sweep around the table, silently gauging their reactions—“we have to convince them that they can surrender. That we will treat them with honor, if they come to terms with us. That there is a future with us . . .
“If we don’t, they’ll fight to the last. And they might win.”
Another pause grew and lengthened.
“Anyone who fights for the House of Lords, against the king, is committing treason,” Earl Antony growled finally.
“Technically, perhaps,” Kat said. It might be true, but the issue would be decided by whoever won the war. “But if we start refusing to accept surrenders, or mistreating people who do surrender, they won’t surrender. Why should they?”
The king nodded slowly. “We will fight according to the Articles of War,” he said. “And yes, we will accept surrenders.”
Kat allowed herself a moment of relief. Attitudes would harden, she knew. The war would make sure of it. Earl Antony wasn’t the only one to argue that the Commonwealth should have repaid mass slaughter and genocide in kind, even though it would have been futile. She doubted the Theocracy’s leaders would have cared if a handful of colony worlds had been glassed, scorched free of life; she knew, deep inside, that she would have refused to carry out such orders if they’d been issued. Perhaps she would have been relieved of command, with her successor carrying out the genocide, but . . . At least her conscience would have been clear. She couldn’t have lived with herself if she’d wiped out billions upon billions of innocents whose only crime had been to be born on the wrong planet.
“And that means sending the guilty parties into exile, rather than putting them on trial and executing them,” Earl Antony grumbled. “They . . .”
“If it ends the war sooner, with us victorious, it is a small price to pay,” King Hadrian said. “And Admiral Falcone is right. We have to live with them afterwards.” His smile thinned. “Lord Snow, where do we stand?”
Lord Snow took control of the display and projected a holographic starchart above the table. Kat leaned forward, studying it thoughtfully. Thirty-seven stars were blinking green, suggesting their planets had joined the king; twenty-two stars were red, indicating that they were either hostile or occupied by enemy forces. A handful of stars were blue, suggesting that they had declared neutrality and refused to join either side, but none of those were particularly significant. They were on the edge of the Commonwealth, too poor and primitive to tip the balance. Kat guessed their rulers were secretly hoping they’d have a chance to join the winning side, once the outcome became clear. Their allegiance probably wouldn’t make any difference.
“We’ve been exchanging diplomatic notes ever since the shooting started,” Lord Snow said, calmly. The king’s diplomat seemed unconcerned by the prospect of all-out war. “A number of worlds have declared for us, although their ability to support our ships and troops is limited. We believe that Boskone and Yale would declare for us, given half a chance, but the House of Lords controls the naval bases in their systems. It might be . . . dangerous . . . for them to come over to our side.”
“Probably,” Kat said. “The House of Lords wouldn’t have to occupy the planets to render them harmless.”
Lord Snow nodded. “The majority of our enemies have strong ties to the House of Lords,” he added, “and have no particular interest in switching sides at the moment. We’re still exchanging messages, of course, but I feel we’re unlikely to get anywhere, at least until we produce victories. Right now, Your Majesty, that means that a sizable chunk of the Commonwealth’s industrial base is under enemy control.”
“Then we have to take it off them,” Earl Antony snapped.
“If we can,” Lord Snow said. “I’ve sent missives to foreign governments, declaring the existence of a government-in-exile, but so far there haven’t been any replies. I suspect that any formal recognition of our existence, either as a government-in-exile or the legitimate government of Tyre and the Commonwealth, will have to wait until we show that we can and do exercise power. Right now, foreigners have nothing to gain and a great deal to lose by offering recognition. Whatever our legal status, on paper, it is a simple fact that our enemies are in control of Tyre.”
“The government rests in me,” the king said, sharply. “I am the government.”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, that isn’t true.” Lord Snow took off his glasses and cleaned them with a small cloth. “Your person is part of the government, true. But, even in the best of cases, you are not all the government. Nor do you exercise effective control over Tyre. The post-Breakdown standard is to recognize governments that exercise control. You, we, do not.”
And that means, sometimes, that we have to recognize governments we dislike, Kat reflected sourly. There were some planetary governments that deserved to be unceremoniously crushed, their armies disbanded and their leaders hanged. And yet, they had to be recognized. It was they who were in complete control. Nothing short of an invasion would remove them from power. Right now, we’re a motley band of refugees.
The king’s face darkened. “Do we need their recognition?”
“Not now, Your Majesty,” Lord Snow said. “And, once you retake Tyre, you will have it by default.”
“Good,” the king said. “Are we ready for war?”
Lord Gleneden spoke first, snapping out points as if he expected to be silenced at any moment. “They control roughly two-thirds of the Commonwealth’s industrial base, Your Majesty. There were . . . difficulties . . . caused by the postwar drawdown, as you are aware, but the House of Lords should have no real difficulties in getting the industrial base back online. In most cases, it will merely be a matter of switching back to military production. They will need some time to deal with bumps along the way, I suspect, but by raw numbers alone they will outproduce us by a fairly considerable margin.”
“And parts of their tech base will be more advanced too,” Lord Snow injected.
“Quite.” Lord Gleneden glanced at Kat, his face unreadable. “If we don’t win the war soon, Your Majesty, we will lose. The skill of our commanding officers and the valor of our fighting men will not matter in the face of overwhelming force. We will be crushed.”
“We’ll be in the same boat as the Theocracy,” Kat said.
“Then we will take the offensive as soon as possible,” the king said. “Can we strike Tyre? Now?”
“Not yet,” Kat said. “We will need time to reorganize, to compensate for the crew who’ve left us and integrate newcomers from all over the Commonwealth. We do have an edge—my fleet was the largest single unit outside Home Fleet itself—but we will need time to gather ourselves before we can take full advantage of it. Right now, any attack on Tyre will be, at best, extremely costly.”
“And if we lose the fleet, we might lose the war,” the king mused.
“There’s no might about it,” Lord Gleneden said. “Without the fleet, we will lose.”
“Quite,” Lord Snow agreed. “Let us have no illusions. Our supporters will start edging away the moment it looks like we’re losing. They will want to come to terms with our enemies, just to save their skins.”
“Then we should gamble everything on one strike,” Earl Antony said. “If we will lose if we do nothing, then we should take the risk.”
“It would end badly,” Kat told him. “Tyre is heavily defended. There’s no way we can take and hold the high orbitals without losing much of our fleet. We would have to lay siege to the planet, which would give them time to recall their fleets to dislodge us.”
Earl Antony glared. “So you’re saying it’s hopeless?”
“No,” Kat said. “I’m just pointing out that we have to lay the groundwork properly before we gamble everything on one throw of the dice. We have a great deal of work to do before we can launch any offensive.”
“Indeed,” the king said. His voice was very calm. “What do you have in mind?”
“I have half an idea,” Kat said. She did, although she knew she would have to consider the strategy carefully before she took it to the king. “But our first priority has to be to ready the fleet.”
“And call for others to rally to our banner,” Lord Snow said. “We might have more allies than we think. We’ve already had a couple of ships report for duty, after their crews rose up in the king’s name. There will be others.”
“Yeah,” Earl Antony said. “And how many of them will turn out to be fair-weather friends?”