Prologue
“I refuse to believe,” Lord Cleric Eliseus snarled, “that we are losing the war.”
Speaker Nehemiah kept his face carefully blank as the Lord Cleric ranted in front of the entire Speakers Council, the nine men who ruled the Theocracy, accusing an unfortunate intelligence officer of everything from making up figures to outright heresy and unbelief. The Lord Cleric didn’t want to accept what he was being told. None of them did. The thought of losing the war, the war which had begun with such promise eighteen months ago, was unthinkable. But they had to face it squarely.
“Enough,” Nehemiah said sharply.
Eliseus spun around to face him. “Speaker, do you believe that we are losing the war?”
Nehemiah looked back at the Lord Cleric evenly. Eliseus was a fanatic. There was no one more determined to uphold the Theocracy and the True Faith than himself. And Nehemiah would be the first to admit that fanatics had their uses. But when contemplating the cold hard numbers—and the possibility of losing the war—fanatics were nothing more than dangerous liabilities.
The Speaker ignored the question. “Continue,” he ordered the intelligence officer. “Summarize the data for us.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” Commodore Durkheim said.
He swallowed hard and continued. “Over the last eighteen months, the Commonwealth has switched its economy onto a war footing and commenced mass production of warships, gunboats, freighters, and everything else necessary to sustain a war. Despite our best efforts, we have been unable to impede their production to any significant extent. In addition, they have recruited vast numbers of starship crews and soldiers from their subject worlds, ensuring that their manpower shortage is a thing of the past. We had hoped that integrating so many personnel from so many worlds would cause them problems, but they appear to have coped with them admirably.”
Nehemiah kept his face still even as he felt a flicker of discontent. The Commonwealth had been having problems as it struggled to integrate so many worlds into its political and economic union, but the war had pushed those problems aside. In hindsight, the Theocracy had made a mistake by moving to the occupied worlds as soon as possible. There might be strife between the Tyre-born and the colonials, but both sides knew that they had to work together or be destroyed. The Theocracy wouldn’t give them a peace they could live with, and they knew it.
“Our own economy is on the verge of imploding,” Durkheim continued. His voice was carefully flat. He did not look at the Speakers charged with overseeing the economy. “Our war production has shrunk remarkably in the last six months; production of everything from starships to missile warheads has declined sharply. Indeed, we only managed to launch four superdreadnoughts since the start of the war; the enemy, damn them to hell, has launched twenty. And, thanks to enemy raiding parties operating behind our lines, we have problems getting supplies to the war front. We simply cannot afford to keep losing freighters at this rate.”
“The crews are treacherous,” Speaker Adam snapped. “They cannot be trusted!”
“They’re unbelievers,” Nehemiah said. “What do you expect?”
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. The Theocracy had poured resources into its battle fleet, building up the largest military machine it could . . . but it had neglected the sinews of war. Supporting the vast fleet hadn’t been easy before the war; now, it was almost impossible. The Commonwealth’s tactic of raiding transport convoys was paying off for them. Either the Theocracy recalled ships from the front to escort convoys, thus weakening the defense lines, or the freighters were blown out of space. The Commonwealth won either way.
And hiring outsiders to transport our supplies has backfired, he thought. They start planning to leave as soon as they get a good look at our system.
Durkheim kept talking. “Our sources within the Commonwealth agree that the enemy intends to begin a major offensive within the next three months,” he said. “They will start by evicting us from the occupied worlds, followed by a thrust through the Gap and into Theocratic Space. I do not believe that they have grasped our current weakness, or just how far ahead of us they are, but they will find out when they begin their offensive. We are in no state to keep them from achieving their goals and stabbing deeper into our space.”
He paused. “The war will soon come to an end.”
“No,” Eliseus snapped. “Our men will fight . . .”
“And they will lose,” Durkheim said.
Nehemiah held up a hand before Eliseus could say a word. “Explain.”
Durkheim bowed his head. “Our forces are weakening fast,” he said. “We have significant shortages of everything from spare parts to missiles and other weapons systems. Worse, we have been unable to run basic maintenance cycles. As a result, too many of our remaining superdreadnoughts are not at full combat efficiency and won’t be without a long stay in the yards. There have been accidents—long strings of accidents—that have cost lives and destroyed morale. Our forces are brittle, Your Holiness. When the enemy attacks, and they will, our forces will break.”
“Impossible,” Eliseus snarled.
“The figures speak for themselves,” Durkheim said. He spoke like a man who had nothing left to lose. “We cannot counter hard numbers with faith.”
He leaned back slightly. “We could kill ten of theirs for every one of ours,” he added, “and we would still lose.”
“The Commonwealth is weak,” Eliseus said. He turned to Nehemiah. “They could not endure such losses.”
“Assuming we could inflict them,” Nehemiah said.
“We can,” Eliseus insisted.
Nehemiah ignored him. The war had been intended to be short and victorious. Instead, it was turning into a long war of attrition . . . a war they couldn’t hope to win. Already, rumors were spreading through the Theocracy, rumors that couldn’t be stopped no matter how many unbelievers were purged. The population outside was starting to doubt their leaders . . . and resent the demands placed on them by the war effort. And there were rumors of resistance cells on planets that had been quiet only two years ago.
And we can’t even send additional troops to reinforce the occupying forces, he thought. We don’t have the shipping to transport them any longer.
He closed his eyes for a long moment as the table started to babble. The fanatics, like Eliseus, would demand that the war be continued, despite the cost. Their faith in ultimate victory was unshakable. But others would be considering their own futures. They’d profited hugely through their positions, and they wouldn’t want to lose them.
Speaker Adam leaned forward. “Perhaps we should sue for peace.”
“Impossible,” Eliseus roared.
Nehemiah allowed the council to finish shouting its outrage, each man practically competing to denounce the idea as loudly as possible, then looked at Durkheim. “Can we sue for peace?”
Durkheim grew even paler. “Your Holiness, they will not accept peace on any terms we would consider acceptable,” he warned. “They want to ensure that we will no longer be a threat to them.”
And we don’t have any leverage to convince them otherwise, Nehemiah thought. Or do we?
He thought rapidly as the table erupted once again. Now that the suggestion had been made . . . it could not be withdrawn. The thought of ending the war on any terms other than total victory was unthinkable—no, it had been unthinkable. Now . . . Nehemiah would be happy to end the wretched war and return to the status quo ante bellum, but the Commonwealth would not. And why should it? The Commonwealth was on the verge of winning the war.
Unless we can force them to pay a high price for victory, he told himself. The idea was gelling in his mind. It was a gamble, but they had nothing to lose. Besides, God was on their side. And if the price is too high, they might accept a compromise peace.
He cleared his throat, bringing the argument to an end. “We have to convince them to agree to a truce,” he said. The members of the council would listen to him, in the end, because they were desperate. The war had to be ended on acceptable terms. “This is what we’re going to do.”
Chapter One
“Transit complete, Captain,” Lieutenant Matthew Gross said. “We have entered the system.”
“No enemy contacts detected,” Lieutenant Commander Cecelia Parkinson added, studying her console carefully. “I’m not detecting any starships within sensor range.”
Captain Sir William McElney sucked in his breath. HMS Thunderchild had slipped out of hyperspace on the very edge of the system, where there was no reason to expect to encounter enemy warships on patrol, but it was just possible that the Theocrats might have installed extensive deep-space monitoring arrays. They were immensely expensive, even by the Commonwealth’s standards, yet the Theocracy needed them. Hebrides was right in the middle of the war front.
“Take us into cloak,” he ordered quietly. The tactical display updated again. A handful of freighters were making their way to and from the system’s largest gas giant, but otherwise the system appeared to be empty. He knew it was an illusion. “And then set course for Hebrides.”
“Aye, Captain,” Gross said. “Course laid in.”
“Take us there,” William ordered.
He leaned back in his command chair as the starship picked up speed. Hebrides had never had the industrial base of Tyre. His homeworld had been a stage-two colony before the Breakaway Wars, but his people were industrious. The loans and equipment the Commonwealth had offered them, during the first few years of membership, had been used to establish a whole network of mining stations and industrial nodes. They’d even produced a second cloudscoop to match the one the Commonwealth had installed years ago. But now the system was as cold and still as the grave. The installations his people had produced were gone.
They wouldn’t have let them fall into enemy hands, he thought. The battle for Hebrides had been savage, but the outcome had been preordained from the start. They’d have destroyed everything that couldn’t be removed before it was too late.
He couldn’t help feeling a wave of nostalgia mixed with an odd sense that he no longer fit in on his homeworld. Decades had passed since he’d left, decades since he’d joined the Royal Navy . . . he’d thought about retiring and going home but never very seriously. Only a handful of his family remained alive on the barren rock—his only surviving brother, Scott, had left too—and he hadn’t been very close to any of them. He’d hated the planet’s leaders with a passion . . .
. . . but they didn’t deserve to be occupied by the Theocracy.
No one does, he thought. The bastards couldn’t even bother to wait for the end of the war before they started converting the population.
He shuddered at the thought. He’d seen the recordings from Hebrides, from Cadiz, from a dozen other unfortunate worlds that had been occupied by the Theocracy. And he’d listened as countless refugees told their stories, warning the Commonwealth’s population of the fate that was in store for them if they lost the war. The entire planetary government would be slaughtered, along with all military and religious personnel; men would be expected to learn to pray, women would be forced to remain in their homes, children would be educated in Theocratic schools . . . even if Hebrides was liberated tomorrow, William thought, the damage to her society would take generations to fix.
But my people are tough, he thought. They will resist.
The Office of Naval Intelligence insisted that Hebrides was still resisting the Theocracy. And, while William had learned to take ONI’s pronouncements with a grain of salt, he had to admit that Hebrides was definitely well prepared for a long-term insurrection. The population was composed of stubborn men and women, most of whom had weapons and knew how to use them. And while other planets might be cowed by the threat of orbital bombardment, Hebrides had few population centers that could be threatened. There would be a planet-wide resistance, William was sure, but such a movement couldn’t hope to do more than sting the Theocracy without outside help.
Which is why we’re here, he reminded himself. It’s time to drive the bastards out of the system, once and for all.
He couldn’t help feeling a surge of very mixed emotions. He knew the Commonwealth had needed time to build up its navy, he knew the Commonwealth needed to protect the stage-four and stage-five worlds ahead of the others . . . but he still couldn’t help feeling as though his adopted government had left Hebrides to suffer. Hebrides had nothing, save for location, and realistically, it didn’t have enough of a location to make up for its other defects. Liberating his homeworld had always been a very low priority.
But we’re coming now, he thought.
The hours ticked by slowly as Thunderchild slipped towards the planet. William cursed under his breath as new icons flickered to life on the display: two enemy superdreadnought squadrons, holding station in high orbit. They didn’t seem to have many flankers, he noted; there were only five destroyers and two ships that resembled converted freighters. But then, the Theocracy was running short of escorts. They probably hoped the superdreadnoughts could take care of themselves.
Which is careless, William thought. Every missile taken out by a flanker is one that won’t threaten the superdreadnought itself.
He rose and paced over to the tactical console. “Analysis?”
“They’re not in good shape, Captain,” Cecelia said. She tapped an enemy icon on the display. “They’re running constant near-orbit scans, but their sensor emissions look a little ragged; I’d say they’re trying to keep their system constantly ramped up and some of their components are burning out. And this ship”—she pointed to a second icon—“has some very odd fluctuations in her drive fields. I’d bet good money that she’s lost at least one, perhaps two, of her nodes.”
“No bet,” William said. “And the freighters?”
“They’ve got mil-grade drives,” Cecelia said. She sniffed rudely. “It’s impossible to be sure, Captain, but I think there’s a very real risk they’d rip themselves apart if they brought their drives up to full power.”
William wasn’t so sure. The Theocracy’s starship designers were inferior to the Commonwealth’s, but they weren’t stupid. They wouldn’t have put such a drive in a freighter unless they were sure she could handle it. And that meant . . .
He stroked his chin, thoughtfully. “What do you think they are?”
“I’d guess they were Q-Ships,” Cecelia said after a moment. She looked up at him thoughtfully. “But they’re a bit obvious for Q-Ships. They might be gunboat carriers.”
“Perhaps,” William said. He’d bet on the latter. Unless the Theocracy was trying to intimidate potential raiders . . . but really, the raiding parties that had been sent into enemy space wouldn’t be particularly intimidated. Capturing enemy freighters was all very well and good, yet the Commonwealth’s objectives would be served just as well by blowing the suspect vessel out of space from a safe distance. “Keep a sharp eye on them.”
“Aye, Captain,” Cecelia said. She smiled thinly. “My overall analysis is that both squadrons are in trouble,” she added. “I think they really need a few months in the yard.”
William nodded. As a general rule, a starship, particularly anything as big as a superdreadnought, required at least three months in the yard per year. Even in the Commonwealth, where engineering crews knew what they were doing and why they were doing it, the ships needed to spend time in the yards. But the Theocracy was running its fleet ragged. William had a feeling that his opposite numbers aboard the enemy ships were just waiting, biting their nails, to see what failed next.
And to think I thought Uncanny was bad, he thought. These ships are in worse condition.
“See if you can pick out any specific weaknesses,” he ordered. “If you can, add them to the tactical matrix.”
“Aye, Captain,” Cecelia said.
William felt a flicker of pride as he turned and walked back to his chair. He’d never been a father, but he couldn’t help feeling a certain paternalistic pride in the officer Cecelia had become. The young midshipwoman he’d met on Lightning had turned into a confident, capable woman who would probably be on the shortlist for a command of her own after she served a term as Executive Officer. And she’d probably do a good job of being an XO too.
He sat down and studied the report from the analysis department. The team largely agreed with Cecelia’s conclusions, although there were a few refinements. The enemy ships seemed to be permanently on combat alert, even though the Commonwealth hadn’t raided the system in months. William had no idea if the enemy was being paranoid or merely trying to make a good show, but he knew pushing themselves too hard couldn’t be good for their equipment . . . or their crew. No crew could remain on alert indefinitely. By now, the poor bastards would be worn down so badly they’d probably be falling asleep at their stations.
And getting flogged when they’re caught, he thought. He’d heard enough about what passed for discipline in the Theocratic Navy to be very glad he didn’t serve in it. The poor bastards are treated like shit by absolutely everyone.
“Captain,” Cecelia said. “I have an update on the planet itself.”
“Show me,” William said.
He felt an odd pang as a holographic image of the planet appeared in front of him. Hebrides was a greenish orb. Unusual for a life-bearing world, most of her surface area was land rather than sea, patches of greenery broken by towering mountains that reached up towards the skies. He remembered climbing some of them as a child, back before the pirates had started to raid his homeworld. Even now, there were mountains that had never been successfully climbed by anyone. But they’d claimed dozens of lives as people tried . . .
“A number of settlements have been destroyed,” Cecelia said. “And the enemy appears to have installed a couple of Planetary Defense Centers near Lothian.”
“That’s bad,” William said. Two PDCs couldn’t hope to defend the planet alone, not without the fleet, but they could make life difficult for the landing force. “Can you determine their current status?”
“No, Captain,” Cecelia said. “They’re not emitting any sensor radiation.”
William shook his head. Task Force Hebrides had more than enough firepower—and marines—to deal with two PDCs, even if the defense centers did put up a fight. The real danger lay in the enemy superdreadnoughts, but they would still be massively outgunned. In their place, William would retreat the moment Task Force Hebrides showed itself. Nothing was gained by sacrificing two squadrons of superdreadnoughts in a futile attempt to keep a useless world. Hell, he wasn’t sure why the Theocracy hadn’t cut its losses years ago. Hebrides wasn’t going to pose a threat to its rear.
He leaned back in his chair. If there were any other enemy ships or installations within the system, they were very well hidden. But they were also irrelevant. Hebrides was the sole prize . . . and besides, the opportunity to crush two squadrons of superdreadnoughts was not one to miss. Task Force Hebrides had more than enough firepower to smash them.
“Helm, take us to the first waypoint,” he ordered. “Tactical, start preparing to deploy the first set of sensor platforms.”
“Aye, Captain,” Gross said. A low quiver ran through the light cruiser as she altered course. “ETA seven minutes.”
William kept a sharp eye on the display. The recon platforms were heavily stealthed—he knew from experience that they were almost impossible to detect, even at point-blank range—but Thunderchild would never be more vulnerable than when she was deploying the platforms. A vigilant sensor officer might just pick up something that would alert him to Thunderchild’s presence, and, if his commanding officer took him seriously, he might dispatch a couple of destroyers to sweep local space. William had no doubt he could avoid contact long enough to make a clean getaway, but the enemy would be alerted. They’d know the Commonwealth was planning an offensive.
And they might have a chance to capture one of the platforms too, he thought sourly. That would get us all in deep shit.
His face darkened at the thought. The Theocracy was unlikely to be able to reverse engineer anything they captured, at least quickly enough to matter, but there were other multistar political entities out there. ONI had warned, in considerable detail, that certain powers were negotiating with the Theocracy, trading weapons and supplies for samples of Commonwealth technology. William wasn’t sure just how seriously to take the reports, but he had to admit they were a valid concern. The Commonwealth-Theocracy War was the first true interstellar war fought between peer powers. Every naval force worthy of the name would be frantically studying the conflict and trying to determine what lessons could be learned from it before they too had to go to war.
Starting with not allowing a complete idiot to take command of a major fleet base, William thought, feeling a flicker of cold amusement. If Admiral Morrison had done his fucking job . . .
“Captain,” Gross said. “We have reached the first waypoint.”
“Very good,” William said. The enemy squadrons didn’t look to be any more alert, but it was impossible to be sure. He wondered if the enemy ships would decay into complete uselessness if left alone. “Deploy the recon platform.”
“Aye, Captain,” Cecelia said.
William tensed. He would have preferred to deploy the platform much farther away from Hebrides, but his briefing clearly stated that they needed the platform as close to the planet as possible. It wasn’t just a recon platform, not really. Many of the details were classified well above his pay grade, but he’d picked up enough hints to know that the platforms connected to a whole new weapons system. And if it worked . . .
Another good reason to test the system here, he thought. No one will notice if the system fails.
“Platform deployed,” Cecelia said. “No sign of enemy reaction.”
William wasn’t reassured. In his experience, a crew needed time to convince a commanding officer to investigate a potential disturbance . . . longer if the commanding officer needed to speak to his commanding officers. And if the enemy commander decided to play it smart, he might be careful not to do anything to warn William while the enemy ships readied themselves for action. But there was no time to wait and see what the enemy did.
“Establish the laser link, and then move us to the second waypoint,” he ordered. “Do not lose contact with the platform.”
“Aye, Captain,” Gross said.
William had to smile at the flicker of indignation in Gross’s voice. He was a very good helmsman. But then, stealthed platforms had been lost before, and while there was an omnidirectional radio beacon mounted on the platform, triggering the beacon would alert the enemy to Thunderchild’s presence. The platform would have to be destroyed instead of recovered.
“Laser link firmly in place, Captain,” Cecelia reported.
“Reaching second waypoint,” Gross added.
“Deploy the second platform,” William ordered.
He kept a wary eye on the enemy ships as Thunderchild deployed the remaining platforms, one by one, but the enemy showed no hint that they were aware of his ship’s presence. They didn’t even seem to be exercising, although that proved nothing. The vast majority of shipboard functions could be practiced through simulations, even though there was no true substitute for a live-fire exercise. But if half his suspicions were accurate, the Theocratic ships were in no state for anything. A live-fire exercise might end in tragedy.
Just like it nearly had for Uncanny, he mused. The thought of his first command caused him a pang, even though the heavy cruiser had died well. And they don’t have the ships or men to spare.
“Captain!” Cecelia snapped. “One of the superdreadnoughts just fired on the planet.”
William swung around to stare at her. “At what?”
“A town, five hundred kilometers from Lothian,” Cecelia said. Her voice was tightly controlled. “They dropped at least seven KEWs, midsized weapons.”
Bastards, William thought. Seven kinetic energy weapons would be more than enough to utterly devastate the town. If anything, such a move was massive overkill. What are they doing down there?
He had a feeling he knew the answer. The Theocracy’s theology insisted that anyone who resisted, anyone who did not cheerfully accept the True Faith as soon as they heard it, was nothing more than a devil-spawned heretic. Unbelievers weren’t just wrong, they were willfully wrong. William didn’t care to follow the logic—or the complete lack of it—but he didn’t need to follow it to know where it led. Anyone the Theocracy classed as a heretic could be enslaved or killed at will.
And there will be an awful lot of heretics on my homeworld, he thought. We don’t give in that easily.
The assault looked bloodless on the display, falling icons touching the planet and flickering out of existence. But he knew what it was like to be under enemy weapons when they struck the surface. The entire town would have been smashed flat, anyone unlucky enough to be inside was killed before they realized that they were under attack. And enemy kill-teams would follow up, sweeping the surrounding area to catch anyone who might have managed to escape. He knew, all too well, what they would do to anyone caught. Or, for that matter, anyone unlucky enough to live too close to the blast zone.
We’re coming, he promised the planet silently. You will be free soon.
“Take us back into deep space,” he ordered. There was nothing they could do now, but once they linked up with the remainder of the task force . . . the Theocracy was in for a nasty shock. “We’ll slip back into hyperspace once we’ve crossed the system limits.”
“Aye, Captain,” Gross said.
Ten hours later, HMS Thunderchild departed the system as stealthily as she’d arrived.
Chapter Two
If there was one advantage of being promoted to commodore, Kat Falcone considered, it was that she had a truly palatial suite onboard HMS Queen Elizabeth. Her compartment on the superdreadnought was still smaller than her rooms in the family mansion—and she couldn’t help feeling as though she was rattling around like a pea in a pod—but there was plenty of room for two people. And hardly anyone cared if the task force’s commander was sharing a bed with her Marine CO.
She sat upright in bed, turning her head to look down at Patrick Davidson. It was rare, very rare, for her to wake without disturbing him, but he barely even stirred as she moved. She smiled as she studied him, fixing his features in her mind. Dark hair cut close to the skull, a shaved face, muscular body . . . before Pat, she’d never met anyone who made her feel safe. But then, she hadn’t been looking.
They made an odd couple, she had to admit. There was definitely something rough about Pat—Kat’s sister had called him ugly, back when she’d been trying to set Kat up with someone more aristocratic—but she didn’t care about his appearance. She, on the other hand, was tall and thin, almost willowy. Her long blonde hair hung down until it stroked the top of her breasts. And yet she was damned if she was letting him go. She’d learned enough about politics, ever since becoming a teenager, to know that a true friend and lover was worth his weight in gold.
Which isn’t that much these days, she thought wryly. Asteroid miners produce thousands of tons of gold every month.
She reached for her terminal and checked for updates. Task Force Hebrides was still holding station in hyperspace, two light-years from its destination. There wasn’t much risk of being detected, but she’d been careful to keep the squadron off the shipping lanes as much as possible. The last report had stated that at least one squadron of enemy superdreadnoughts was orbiting Hebrides, utterly unaware she was coming. And she didn’t want them to know she was coming until she actually arrived. After spending so long matching herself against superior enemy firepower, having the decisive advantage herself would be a breath of fresh air.
And besides, she told herself, destroying an entire squadron of superdreadnoughts is a worthwhile goal in itself.
Pat stirred, his eyes opening sharply. “What time is it?”
Kat made a show of glancing at the terminal. “You were meant to be in Marine Country two hours ago,” she said in a deadpan. “And there have been no less than five official complaints filed already.”
“I hope not,” Pat said. He elbowed her as he saw the terminal. “I’ve still got an hour.”
“Yeah,” Kat said. She let out a long breath. “Thunderchild hasn’t returned.”
Pat sat upright and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Sir William is a good man,” he said. “And he has strict orders to avoid all enemy contact. He’ll be back.”
Kat snorted. Only an idiot, or a politician, would imagine that Thunderchild could carry out her mission without any prospect of being detected. She had to slip right up to the planet, for crying out loud! Thunderchild was a good ship, far better than Uncanny, but her cloaking systems would have problems compensating for the moment she deployed her recon platforms. William might have real problems escaping the system without engaging the enemy, if they caught a whiff of his presence.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. “I’m going for a shower,” she said. “Ask Lucy to send in some coffee, would you?”
Pat nodded. “And breakfast?”
Kat smiled wanly as she strode across the compartment and into the shower. Being a flag officer in the navy was like staying at an expensive hotel with a giant bed, immense washroom, and room service. But no one staying at a hotel had the same responsibilities as a flag officer on active duty. She might no longer be in command of her own ship—she’d had to resist the temptation to peer over Captain Fran Higgins’s shoulder—but she was responsible for the entire task force. Fifty-seven ships, eighteen of them superdreadnoughts . . . she was responsible for them all.
And yet, she would never know them. They would never be truly hers.
She turned on the water and sighed in relief as it ran down her body. It was hard not to worry about Thunderchild, let alone the other ships and crew under her command. Her promotion hadn’t been a surprise, but she would have refused it if that had been an option. She cared too much about her ships and crew, she knew. She’d handled squadron command before, yet this was different. A single superdreadnought would take over a thousand spacers with it if it were blown out of space by enemy fire.
The captains have their job, she told herself firmly. And I have mine.
She finished washing herself and turned off the water, feeling oddly guilty for using so much. The water was recycled, naturally, but none of the lower decks had the time to just luxuriate under the flow. They’d already be heading to their duty stations as the shift changed, after catching enough sleep, she hoped, so that they’d be in tip-top condition for the coming battle. She couldn’t have tired men and women manning her ships. Exhaustion had killed more spacers than anything else outside an actual engagement.
“Coffee on the table,” Pat said. “And a full breakfast, which you are going to eat.”
“Yes, mother,” Kat said, dryly. She’d never found it easy to eat before a battle, although the genetic improvements spliced into her DNA ensured that she didn’t put her ship at risk through starvation. “I’ll see how much of it I can choke down.”
“Try choking down marine rations,” Pat said as he climbed out of bed. “If you can stomach those, you can stomach anything.”
Kat stuck out her tongue childishly. “I thought that was why you had your stomach modified?”
“It was,” Pat said.
He turned and walked into the shower. Kat watched his nude body for a long moment, wondering if this was what it was like to be married. To be with someone, to relax with someone . . . her parents had been married for over sixty years, but she knew they didn’t always spend time together. But then, family politics would never let them divorce, even if they had grown to hate one another.
But they still seem to like one another, she thought as she sipped her coffee. How do they do it?
Lucy Yangtze, her steward, had outdone herself, Kat decided as she tucked into the scrambled eggs and bacon. The food was the same reconstituted crap everyone else ate, but that of flag officers got special flavorings to make it almost completely indistinguishable from the real thing. Or so Kat had been told. She might have grown up among the aristocracy, yet she’d never developed the gourmand tastes of some of her relatives. Their lives were meaningless. They’d never accomplished anything on their own, ever. And they knew it.
She glanced up as Pat stepped back into the compartment, a towel wrapped around his waist, then nodded to the covered plate on the table. Pat sat down and began to eat, wolfing down the food in a manner Kat knew would earn the highest levels of scorn and disdain in aristocratic society. She didn’t care much for fine dining, but at least she knew how to comport herself at table. Yet she didn’t blame Pat. He’d been taught, time and time again, better to eat quickly, whenever one had a moment, rather than risk being caught by surprise. The thought of a platoon of marines having a formal dinner under enemy fire . . .
Pat glanced at her. “What’s so funny?”
“A random thought,” Kat lied. “I . . .”
The intercom bleeped. “Commodore, this is Gaston in Tracking,” a male voice said. “HMS Thunderchild has returned to the fleet. She’s copying her files over now.”
“Understood,” Kat said. “Inform the commanding officers that I am calling a general meeting in”—she glanced at the chronometer—“twenty minutes. They are to attend via hologram.”
“Aye, Commodore,” Gaston said.
Kat closed the connection, feeling a surge of warm relief. Thunderchild had returned! She hadn’t run into trouble or been blown out of space. But now it was time to go to war. Kat took one last swig of coffee, rose, and hastily started to dress. The meeting might be holographic, but they’d be heading straight for Hebrides in less than an hour. She doubted she’d have time to go back to her cabin and change.
“Here we go, then,” Pat said. He rose and dressed with lightning speed. “Do you want me to attend in person?”
“If you would,” Kat said. “Or do you have to go back to Marine Country?”
“Not yet,” Pat said. “I’ll have to give them the final briefing after we download the recordings from Thunderchild.”
They shared a grin, and then Kat turned and led the way out of her cabin, down towards the flag bridge. Stepping into the compartment felt odd after spending so long in command of her own ship, but she knew she’d probably never command her own ship again. Shaking her head, she took one look at the tactical display as she walked by and into the conference room. A handful of ghostly holographic images were already present, waiting for her. More were blinking in all the time.
She took her seat and smiled. She’d known admirals who’d insisted on everyone attending in person, something that caused all sorts of delays and irritations for their subordinates. She could see the value, she supposed, but it was a pain in the ass when time was pressing. There was no way to be entirely sure Thunderchild had escaped without detection, and even if she had, the enemy ships might change their positions anyway. It was what Kat would do if she’d been charged with defending a useless planet.
But I wouldn’t try to defend the planet in the first place, she thought. It contributes nothing to the war effort.
“Gentlemen, be seated,” she said, once the last of the holographic images had flickered into existence. “Sir William?”
William’s image took a step forward. “Commodore,” he said. A tactical display blinked up, hovering over the conference table. “As you can see, the enemy fleet is numerically strong, but there are excellent reasons to believe that their ships are not in good condition.”
“They look like Uncanny,” Captain Hemlock Jones said.
“Worse,” William said. “We suspect that two of the superdreadnoughts cannot move under their own power.”
Kat studied the display for a long moment, flicking through the more detailed reports William’s staff had put together. Finding a second superdreadnought squadron orbiting Hebrides was a nasty surprise, but if the analysts were right, Kat still had a crushing advantage even without the new weapons. Indeed, there was no logical reason to keep the superdreadnoughts at Hebrides unless the enemy couldn’t put them to use elsewhere. She would have expected them to be pointed straight at the nearest Commonwealth world.
Because tactical retreats don’t seem to be included in their tactical manuals, she thought wryly. All they want to do is attack, attack, attack.
“They look like easy targets,” Captain Smith said. “Is it a trap?”
“If so, it’s a very odd one,” William said. “We detected no hints that there were any other ships in the system, save for the ones on the display.”
Kat knew better than to take that for granted. Space was vast. Every starship in the entire galaxy could be hidden within a single star system, as long as elementary precautions were taken. But William was right. It was a very odd trap. If nothing else, she could be relatively sure of getting her ships back out of the system if indeed three or four more superdreadnought squadrons were lurking in the interplanetary void.
“The presence of a second enemy squadron changes nothing,” she said when William had finished giving the briefing. “We will proceed as planned.”
She waited for an objection but heard none. Her officers wanted to go on the offensive; they wanted to give the Theocracy a bloody nose. They were sworn to defend the Commonwealth, but they had failed to keep the Theocracy from occupying the system and landing a colossal force on Hebrides. And besides, they knew they had a decisive advantage over their foes. Even if the new weapons failed, they still had plenty of other tricks up their sleeves.
“We will engage the enemy ships as quickly as possible,” Kat continued. “We don’t want them trying to escape into hyperspace.”
“Fat chance,” Captain Jones muttered.
Kat was inclined to agree. The Theocracy rarely ran, even when the odds were stacked against them. And they might assume that two squadrons of superdreadnoughts had a reasonable chance of inflicting serious harm on another two squadrons of superdreadnoughts, even if some of their ships were in poor condition. But Kat knew that didn’t matter. There were so many new warships coming off the slips now that she could lose her entire fleet without inflicting any harm on the enemy . . . and it wouldn’t matter. The balance of power would remain firmly on the Commonwealth’s side.
Unless they come up with a new weapons system of their own, she thought. But that isn’t likely either.
“Once we have secured the high orbitals, we will commence bombardment of enemy positions while landing the marines,” she said. “If the enemy attempts to surrender, we will of course accept it, but we cannot assume that they will surrender. The marines will land around Lothian and ready themselves for an advance on the PDCs. Hopefully, we will link up with resistance forces on the ground during the advance.”
They weren’t a very specific set of instructions, but she knew better than to micromanage her subordinates. There was no way to know what would happen on the ground, at least until the marines landed. Pat would be in command. He knew his objective; Kat might have issued the orders, but he would be the one to determine how the mission would be carried out. There was no way Kat could hope to steer events from orbit.
“Assuming the enemy does surrender, we will make certain to separate them from the civilian population as quickly as possible,” she added. “Enlisted men will be separated from officers, the latter transported to orbit for interrogation before they are sent to a holding camp. Those charged with war crimes will be put on trial after the war is over. The remainder . . . we’ll have to see what happens, after the war.”
She shook her head bitterly. Too many atrocities had been committed over the last two years for anyone to be enthusiastic about treating prisoners gently. She knew, all too well, that some politicians had even proposed simply executing every POW without bothering with the formality of a trial. And her own darker side found it tempting. What was the point of being the good guys, of trying to treat prisoners well, when one’s own personnel were treated barbarically? Wasn’t retaliation enshrined in the laws of war?
But that assumes that the other side gives a damn, she thought. The Theocrats wouldn’t care if we tortured their captured personnel until they were in permanent agony.
“We move out in thirty minutes,” she concluded. Thankfully, her ships and crews were ready to move with ten minutes’ notice. “And we’ll give the enemy hell.”
A low rumble of agreement ran around the chamber. The Commonwealth had been on the offensive before, raiding deep into enemy space, but this was different; the first thrust aimed at liberating an enemy-held world. And it would be the first of many. Kat had seen the plans drawn up back on Tyre. The Theocracy would be smothered ruthlessly, crushed under the colossal weight of Commonwealth war production. The fight wouldn’t be fair, but she couldn’t even begin to feel sorry for the bastards.
“Good luck to us all,” she said. “Dismissed.”
The holographic images winked out, leaving her alone with Pat. She glanced at him, then looked back at the display. Hebrides hung in front of her, surrounded by twenty-five red icons. Perhaps it was her imagination, but they seemed to be glaring angrily at her. They knew she was coming for them.
“Try and protect the civilians,” she said without looking at him. “Please.”
“I wish that were possible,” Pat said. “But they put most of their bases close to civilian population centers.”
Kat gritted her teeth. The Theocracy had killed thousands of civilians, and she was about to kill thousands more. But Kat had no choice. The enemy could not be allowed time to go underground. The Commonwealth would need years to root them all out, even with the locals helping. She didn’t have the time.
“Good luck,” she said. She turned and gave him a tight hug. “Come back to me, all right?”
“I will,” Pat promised.
He kissed her once, then turned and strode out of the compartment. Kat looked back at the display, silently considering the more detailed reports. The enemy ships did seem to be in very poor condition. But Uncanny had seemed in poor condition too.
But they’ll want to intimidate us, she thought coldly. Looking like wounded gazelles will merely invite attack.
She dismissed the thought as she turned and headed for the hatch. It no longer mattered. She’d find out the truth, sooner or later. But now . . . ?
Now was the time to make war.