Falcone Strike - SAMPLE
Professionally Published Books by Christopher G. Nuttall
Angel in the Whirlwind
The Oncoming Storm
ELSEWHEN PRESS
The Royal Sorceress
The Royal Sorceress (Book I)
The Great Game (Book II)
Necropolis (Book III)

Bookworm
Bookworm
Bookworm II: The Very Ugly Duckling
Bookworm III: The Best Laid Plans
Bookworm IV: Full Circle

Inverse Shadows
Sufficiently Advanced Technology

Stand Alone
A Life Less Ordinary
The Mind’s Eye
TWILIGHT TIMES BOOKS
Schooled in Magic
Schooled in Magic (Book I)
Lessons in Etiquette (Book II)
Study in Slaughter (Book III)
Work Experience (Book IV)
The School of Hard Knocks (Book V)
Love’s Labor’s Won (Book VI)
Trial By Fire (Book VII)
The Decline and Fall of the Galactic Empire
Barbarians at the Gates (Book I)
The Shadow of Cincinnatus (Book II)
HENCHMEN PRESS
First Strike
Falcone Strike
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Christopher G. Nuttall
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
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Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503947085
ISBN-10: 1503947084
Cover design by [TK]
Illustrated by [TK]
Printed in the United States of America
Prologue
The Hall of Judgment was a towering structure, huge enough to hold a thousand witnesses comfortably as the accused made his long slow walk towards the judges seated in their thrones, right at the front of the chamber. It was almost empty now, Admiral Junayd discovered, as two Inquisitors shoved him through the heavy wooden door and onto the stone pathway. The only people in the room, save for him and his escorts, were the First Speaker and two Clerics, waiting for him.
He rattled his chains mournfully as he started his walk, smiling inwardly at the cold glares aimed at him by the Inquisitors. They would have been happy to give him a good kicking if they hadn’t had to keep him reasonably intact to face his judges. No doubt that was why they’d left half the chains off, even though procedure insisted the accused had to be weighed down with so many iron chains that walking at anything more than a staggering crawl was impossible. They wanted him to be able to answer the charges when they were leveled against him.
Not that there’s any hope of leaving this room alive, he thought bitterly. Someone has to take the blame.
He ground his teeth together, silently. Who could have predicted that the Commonwealth, asleep for so long, would have woken up just in time to organize an effective defense? Who could have predicted that one of their junior officers—a woman, no less—would get enough ships out of the trap to render the First Battle of Cadiz a tactical success and a strategic failure? And who could have predicted that the Commonwealth would have enough reinforcements in the vicinity to launch a counterattack that had severely embarrassed the Theocracy? Someone had to take the blame . . .
. . . and, as far as the Theocracy was concerned, failure was a sign of God’s displeasure.
The weeks Junayd had spent in captivity had been far from pleasant. His interrogators had alternatively rooted through his life, searching for the secret sin that needed to be punished to please God, and praying at him to repent and hurl himself into the fire, to sacrifice himself for the Theocracy. There had been no point, he was sure; he had committed no sin deserving of punishment . . . save, perhaps, for losing. And now . . . he knew the Speaker would need to make an example of him. The Theocracy had to be seen to deal with failure harshly or it would undermine its position.
He stopped in front of the thrones and bowed his head, feeling the weight of the chains pulling him towards the floor. It was all he could do to remain upright, but he forced himself to hold steady. Going to his death bravely, even willingly, would make up for his sins and convince the Inquisitors to spare his family. His wives might be returned to their families, his children might be distributed among his relatives, but at least they would be alive. The alternative was unthinkable. Sin was so prevalent and the Inquisition so determined to root it out that they would happily kill his children if they felt he had not repented.
“Admiral,” the Speaker said. His voice was very cold. “You have failed God.”
“I served God willingly,” Junayd said calmly. “If it was His will that the battle be lost, it was His will.”
The Speaker looked at him for a long moment. “You have served God well, over the years,” he said. “It is our considered judgment that your work was undermined by the presence of sinners within our fortress and our failure to weed them out cost us the opening battles.”
Junayd blinked in surprise. He’d expected to be made the scapegoat, not . . .
“But the opening battles have still left us in a strong position,” the Speaker continued, seemingly unaware of Junayd’s shock. “We will still win the war.”
If we can, Junayd thought. The Commonwealth’s long-term potential was far greater than the Theocracy’s. Assuming it survived the opening blows, there was a very strong prospect of the Commonwealth winning the war outright. Junayd had no illusions about just how few of the occupied worlds truly loved the Theocracy. Resistance movements might be hopelessly doomed as long as the Theocracy controlled the high orbitals, but they would distract the Theocracy from focusing on the war. The Commonwealth may survive long enough to bring its greater strength into play.
He realized, suddenly, just how precarious the Speaker’s position was. It had been his daughter—again, a mere woman—who had defected, taking with her advance warning of the oncoming storm. Who would have thought that Princess Drusilla, the Speaker’s own daughter, would take such a chance? No one had given any thought to her at all, beyond the simple fact that whomever she married would be in a strong position to become Speaker when her father died. Hundreds had died to keep the secret buried, but if it got out . . . the Speaker’s position would be untenable. Who could condemn Junayd for failing to react in time, perhaps because of a long-buried sin, when the Speaker’s own daughter had committed outright treason?
A flicker of hope ran through him. He had friends and allies . . . most of them might shy away after the failure, but not all of them would. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for survival.
“You will be reassigned, Admiral,” the Speaker said. “Command of the striking fleets will be passed to someone else. You will assume command of the outer defense formations, protecting our borders against intrusions. In time, with God’s grace, you will return to your old role.”
Junayd nodded, hastily. The defense formations weren’t highly regarded, not when serving on the striking fleets brought glory and wealth, but at least he wasn’t being ceremonially beheaded, let alone hung, drawn, and quartered. He could build a new power base for himself, given time; indeed, with the Commonwealth no doubt seeking ways to strike back, there would even be chances for glory. On the other hand, the manpower would be poor and morale would be in the pits. Few competent officers were assigned to the defense formations.
But at least I will be alive, he reminded himself firmly.
“You will assume your new role at once,” the Speaker said. “The guards will escort you to your ship.”
So I can’t talk to anyone along the way, Junayd thought wryly. Whatever deals had been struck while he’d been languishing in a prison cell wouldn’t have taken his desire to see his family and friends into account. Everything I send to my family will be carefully censored first.
“Thank you,” he said, instead. “It will be my honor to serve.”
“Indeed,” the Speaker said. “And may God defend the right.”
Chapter One
“You know,” Candy Falcone said, “you really should be on the dance floor.”
Kat Falcone sighed as she leaned over the balcony, peering down at the guests below. Candy had a talent for inviting the best and brightest—or at least the richest and well connected—to her balls, but Kat had very little in common with any of them. Some were trust-fund babies, unable to do anything more complex than unscrewing the cap on the latest bottle of bubbly; some had built themselves reputations based on their family name and a certain willingness to exploit it for themselves. They would have been somewhere—anywhere—else, she was sure, if they’d actually lived up to their claims.
“I’m bored,” she confessed, without looking around. “I shouldn’t even be here.”
“You’re the guest of honor,” Candy said. “Percy wants to meet you, Katherine, while I believe Owen and Gayle were trying to work up the nerve to ask you out . . .”
“God forbid,” Kat said. “What do I have in common with any of them?”
Kat groaned, loudly. Percy was a weak-chinned wonder, a walking advertisement for the dangers of making someone’s life too easy, while Owen and Gayle were known hedonists. It was hard to find something edgy in the Commonwealth, not without breaking laws that would see even high-ranking aristocrats in jail or facing a firing squad, but these two seemed to manage it. And besides, she was in a relationship. Why her sister didn’t seem inclined to leave her to have her own life was beyond her.
“You’re an aristocrat,” Candy said. “You have that in common with them.”
Kat swung around to glower at her sister. Candy was tall and blonde, wearing a long green dress that showed off her chest to best advantage while hinting at the shape of her legs. They hadn’t gotten on since Kat had grown old enough to realize that her older sister spent more time in pursuit of pleasure than anything else . . . and that she would eventually grow bored of a baby sister, no matter how novel she seemed initially. If Candy hadn’t been hosting some of the most important balls on the planet, with some of the most important movers and shakers invited to attend, Kat would have declined the invitation. Right now, she wished she’d declined it anyway.
“I am a serving officer in the Royal Navy,” she said sharply. It was something she was proud of, if only because she’d achieved it on her own. “How many of them”—she waved a hand down towards the crowds—“have ever served in the Navy, let alone commanded their own starship?”
“I believe that Tryon owns a pleasure yacht,” Candy said. “Would that count?”
“No,” Kat snapped. “A pleasure cruiser isn’t quite the same as a heavy cruiser.”
“Your ship crashed,” Candy pointed out. “What else do you have to do?”
Kat gritted her teeth. Lightning was being repaired after the battle, and her crew were dispersed among a dozen other ships as the Commonwealth struggled to regain its balance after the war had begun . . . she shouldn’t be wasting time at a party. But she knew, no matter how much she wanted to deny it, that there was nothing she could do . . .
“Something,” she said finally. Maybe she should have asked her father to use his influence, once again, to get her a transfer. This time, she was sure, no one could have argued that she hadn’t earned the post. The medals on her chest proved that beyond all doubt. “This party is just a waste of time.”
“It isn’t,” Candy said, as she took Kat’s arm and led her towards the stairs. “The men and women gathered here aren’t entirely useless. They represent voting blocs in family corporations—small blocs, to be sure, but not useless. Keeping them confident that our ultimate victory is assured is quite an important part of the war.”
Kat blinked in genuine astonishment. “Really?”
“Yes,” Candy said. She leaned closer to whisper into Kat’s ear. “You’re not the only one capable of thinking tactically, you know. Some of us fight battles in ballrooms and bedrooms, not in deep space.”
“Oh,” Kat said. She knew socializing was important, but she’d never been very good at it, not when she’d been the youngest of ten children. Instead, she’d been allowed to choose her own path and walked straight into the Navy. It still galled her to know that her family name— curse and blessing mixed into one—had smoothed her path to command. “But surely they know they can’t escape the war?”
Candy smirked. “How many of them have never experienced the world outside the towering mansions of High Society?”
She had a point, Kat was loath to admit. She’d never really experienced hardship until she’d gone to Piker’s Peak. Even sharing a room with a single roommate had been tricky, back when she’d been used to having an entire suite to herself. And the less said about the food the better. But she’d earned her uniform and her position in the Royal Navy. The men and women on the dance floor had no idea of what life was like outside their mansions . . . and they wouldn’t have any real comprehension of just how horrific life would become under the Theocracy. What enemy forces had done to Cadiz, since driving Kat and 7th Fleet away from the planet, proved they wouldn’t even begin to hesitate in reshaping the Commonwealth’s worlds to suit themselves.
“So you go chat to them and tell them everything you saw,” Candy added. “And make it clear that victory is inevitable, if they keep pushing for it.”
Kat didn’t quite roll her eyes, but she saw her sister’s point. If victory was inevitable, why strive for it? But if victory was not inevitable, why not consider some form of compromise with the Theocracy? It was impossible, she knew—the only way a sheep could compromise with a wolf was from inside the wolf’s belly—but someone without direct experience of just how ruthless the Theocracy could be might think otherwise.
“I’ll do my best,” she promised as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “But the sooner I’m back on the bridge, the better.”
Kat groaned inwardly as the crowd surrounded them, some staring at her attire—Candy had insisted she wear her white dress uniform—others eager to chat with Candy about nothing in particular. Kat looked at them, silently grateful her father had allowed her to go to Piker’s Peak rather than one of the finishing schools that specialized in turning young men into chinless wonders and young women into brainless beauties. If things had been different, if she’d been less driven to accomplish something for herself, she might be one of the admiring throng rather than a starship commander. It was not a pleasant thought . . .
But Candy has hidden depths, she told herself. It was an odd thought, reminding her of exercises where she’d hunted for stealthed starships. A cloaking device could hide a starship in the vastness of space or convince prowling hunters that it was nothing more than a small asteroid or a cloud of dust. How many of the guests have hidden depths too?
It nagged at her mind as the party dragged on. Candy had a point: The vast majority of the partygoers might be unimportant, in the grand scheme of things, but collectively they commanded huge wealth and power. Kat toyed with a handful of scenarios; maybe, just maybe, their influence would be sufficient to change the Commonwealth’s path if they wished. But she found it hard to believe they had any real influence. God knew her share of the family voting stock was minimal, even though she’d proved herself at Cadiz.
“Lady Katherine,” a smooth voice said. Kat turned to see Lord Brenham standing just behind her with a glass in his hand. “Would you care to join me on the dance floor?”
Kat bit down the reaction that came to mind. Lord Brenham was notorious, so notorious that even she had heard of him. He was an unrepentant rake, a seducer who was reputed to have slept with every girl and half the boys in High Society. And, surprisingly, he wasn’t hated by everyone else. High Society didn’t give a damn what happened, as long as it happened between consenting adults in private.
“No,” she said flatly. She supposed she should have been politer, but she was tired and cranky. Besides, she’d never lost herself in hedonism and she wasn’t about to start now. “I’m required to mingle.”
Lord Brenham merely nodded, then walked off. He didn’t show any sign of anger at her rejection, somewhat to her surprise, but she supposed it made sense. A man so intent on chasing bright young things wouldn’t have time to get upset. All he’d need to do was find someone else . . .
“Great between the sheets,” Candy observed. If rumor was to be believed, her string of conquests was almost as long as Lord Brenham’s. “But personality? Skin deep.”
Kat scowled at her. “Is it wrong to want something more . . . personal than a quick fuck?”
“This is High Society, sweetheart,” Candy said gently. “You know as well as I do that marriage, that intimacy, isn’t a matter of choice.”
“I know,” Kat muttered.
It wasn’t something she’d ever expected to have to handle, not when she was the tenth child of Duke Falcone. Peter, Ashley, and Dolly—the three oldest—were the ones whose marriages had been determined by their father, mingling the family bloodline with partners who would bring strength and other assets to the family. Kat’s share of the family bloc was so low that she could marry for love, if she wanted. Maybe it was a flaw in her personality, but she was damned if she was entering a loveless marriage. There was something fundamentally wrong about a match where both partners knew the other was having an affair . . .
The smaller clusters of people started to blur together as Candy moved her from group to group, sometimes clearly showing Kat off, sometimes just listening as the gathered aristocrats discussed the war and its implications. One elderly woman bragged about her grandchild fighting on the front lines; one younger woman talked about her new baby and wondered out loud if he would be conscripted into the military. Kat rather suspected she would wind up feeling sorry for the baby, if she ever met the child; the mother had given birth only a month ago, she gathered, and yet she’d left the baby with the servants and ventured out for a party . . .
At least Dad spent some time with us, she thought. Duke Falcone had been a very busy man and his ten children had suffered, although he had tried to make time for them. Their mother had largely stayed at home, supervising the children as best as she could and commanding a small army of servants . . . which hadn’t stopped Kat and her siblings from running riot, on occasion. What will happen to the poor baby?
“But surely there would be room for peace,” a middle-aged woman was saying loudly. Her shrill voice grated on Kat’s ears. “The galaxy is big enough for the both of us.”
Kat opened her mouth to make a sarcastic reply, but an older gentleman spoke first. “The Theocracy attacked us first, Lady Ella,” he said. “They clearly do not agree that we can coexist; everything we know about them tells us that they cannot tolerate a different society near their own. Their expansion would inevitably bring them into conflict with us, if only because we welcome the refugees fleeing their rule.”
“Some of those refugees turned out to be spies,” another man said.
That, Kat knew, was true. The Commonwealth had taken in everyone, debriefing them thoroughly . . . but a number of spies and operatives had slipped through the net. After the first attacks had died down, every refugee had been hastily rounded up and interned, the innocent as well as the guilty. The innocent would be cared for, she knew, but it would also undermine their faith in the Commonwealth. And, perhaps, the Commonwealth’s faith in itself.
She pushed the thought aside, irritated. The Commonwealth Charter was many things, but it was not a suicide pact.
“You might be interested in this,” Candy said, tugging her towards another group. “And you might even have something to say.”
“Admiral Christian should have continued to press the offensive,” a man said. “In choosing to withdraw from Cadiz, he wasted a chance to smash an entire enemy fleet.”
Kat felt her heart sink as she recognized him. Justin Deveron was an armchair admiral, an amateur student of military history who had never, as far as she knew, served in the military. He was handsome, in a way; his suit was carefully tailored to look like a uniform, suggesting he had served without ever making a false claim. His brown hair was cropped close to his scalp in a spacer’s cut, adding another layer to the illusion. Kat had regrown her long hair once she’d left Piker’s Peak, but most spacers preferred to keep their hair short. It could get in the way when they were on duty.
She groaned, again, as Deveron recognized her. He’d made a name for himself as a gadfly, questioning the Admiralty regularly and posing as an expert; indeed, the fact he’d never served allowed him to claim to be giving disinterested advice and commentary. But it also meant that his statements, at best, were wholly theoretical . . .
“But I believe you were there, Captain Falcone,” Deveron said. There was an easy confidence in his voice that got on her nerves. “Do you believe that Admiral Christian passed up the chance to smash an enemy fleet?”
“Yes,” Kat said, “but . . .”
“The Admiralty saw fit to reward him for abandoning the fight,” Deveron said, addressing the circle. “He ran from Cadiz and they rewarded him . . .”
Kat felt her temper flare. She knew Admiral Christian. More to the point, unlike Deveron, she’d actually been there when he’d made the decision. She knew his reasoning and she agreed with it. So had the Admiralty. Many people had been criticized, in the wake of the First and Second Battles of Cadiz, but Admiral Christian hadn’t been one of them.
She pulled herself to her full height, as if she were standing on her bridge in the midst of combat. “I’m afraid that isn’t quite correct, Mr. Deveron,” she said. It was easy enough to channel one of her more sarcastic tutors from Piker’s Peak. “Your analysis, while superficially accurate, fails to take a number of factors into account. This failure undermines it to the point where it loses relevancy.”
Candy shifted beside her, warningly, but Kat ignored her, never taking her eyes off Deveron.
“You see, in war, there are operational concerns, tactical concerns, and strategic concerns,” she continued, speaking each word clearly. “Operationally and tactically, the combined striking power of 6th and 7th fleets could have destroyed the enemy force. Post-battle analysis suggested, very strongly, that the enemy ships had expended all of their missiles, requiring them to either force a duel at energy range or to abandon the battlefield. Yes, there was a very good chance we could have smashed the enemy fleet or convinced it to withdraw.”
She took a breath, then went on. “However, there was no way to know if that was the sole enemy fleet in the sector,” she said. “We didn’t know—we still don’t know—just how many ships the Theocracy possesses. Attempting the complete destruction of one enemy fleet could have led to the combined force shooting itself dry, just in time for a second enemy fleet to arrive and scatter us. Or, for that matter, to seize other worlds in the sector. The combined fleet was the only deployable mobile force available. Risking it for a dubious goal was not in the cards.
“Retreating from Cadiz was not a cowardly decision. It was a brave decision, purely because armchair experts such as yourself wouldn’t hesitate to call it cowardly. By the time the Admiralty had examined all the sensor records and collected testimonies from everyone on the scene, the opinions of you and the other armchair experts would have filled the datanet with claims that Admiral Christian fled the battlefield and that if you’d been in command no enemy ship would have escaped.”
Deveron stared at her. “But . . .”
“But nothing,” Kat snapped. She allowed her anger to color her voice. “You weren’t there. You weren’t the one on the spot, with everything resting on you, when the decision had to be made. All you can do is carp and criticize, doing it from, at best, a flawed understanding of just what actually happened. He had no choice! Admiral Christian did the right thing at the right time, combining the goal of striking a blow against the Theocracy with the urgent need to preserve his command intact so it could hold the line. And, as the Theocracy invaded three worlds and attacked two more, in addition to Cadiz itself, we know he was right. It’s only people like you who say otherwise.”
She turned and stalked off. Candy would probably seek to smooth ruffled feathers, but Kat found it hard to care. The folks on Tyre had assigned Admiral Morrison to Cadiz, then chosen to turn a blind eye to his conduct, even as the storm clouds loomed over the Commonwealth. No doubt Deveron would have praised Admiral Morrison to the skies, even though he’d done more than anyone else to weaken the defenses and make the Commonwealth vulnerable.
I may get in trouble for telling him the truth, she told herself as she made her way back to the waiting aircars, but it was worth it.
Chapter Two
“I seem to recall that there were times when you misbehaved quite badly as a child,” Duke Falcone said the following morning. “You wanted my attention, did you not?”
“Yes, Father,” Kat said, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Her father had ordered her to meet him in his office as soon as she’d woken, without any time for breakfast. “I was feeling neglected.”
Her father’s face darkened. “And are you feeling neglected now?”
“No, sir,” Kat said. She wasn’t a child any longer; she was damned if she was going to tolerate an unsubtle suggestion that she was acting childish. “I’m feeling useless.”
Her father quirked his eyebrows. “I would hardly call the serving officer who saved half of 7th Fleet and then countless lives on Cadiz useless,” he said. “You’re very much a heroine to the population.”
“I am a serving officer in good health,” Kat said flatly. “I should be out on the front lines, not stuck here raising the morale of the civilian population.”
“It is that morale that must be maintained,” her father said. “Should vast numbers of our people despair, should they come to believe that there is no hope of victory, the war effort would be fatally compromised. You standing up in front of a crowd and telling them that the Theocracy can be beaten is important.”
“I know that, Father,” Kat said. What was it about her father that he could reduce her to the mindset of a teenage girl with a handful of well-chosen words? “But I still feel useless.”
Her father sighed. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “And I don’t blame you for wanting to squash that gadfly. But he’s a gadfly with powerful connections and some of them have already been muttering in my ear, warning me that your words might have unpleasant consequences.”
“That . . . gadfly might have connections to whoever was backing Admiral Morrison,” Kat pointed out. “Attacking Admiral Christian might be a way to draw attention away from Admiral Morrison.”
“It’s a possibility,” her father said. He shrugged. “It’s also possible that he really is nothing more than a loudmouth with a handful of political connections.”
“He’s a danger,” Kat said tartly. “The news bulletins from the front aren’t really censored, Father. It doesn’t take much intellectual effort to see that we were caught flatfooted when the Theocracy came pouring over the border . . .”
“We weren’t, thanks to you,” her father said.
“. . . and that Admiral Morrison was primarily to blame,” Kat continued. Morrison had simply refused to even consider the possibility of an oncoming storm, let alone make preparations to meet it. She would have gleefully strangled the man at the time if she’d realized the true scale of the disaster bearing down on them. It would probably have cost her everything, including her life, but it would have saved countless more. “No attempt to cover up the truth is likely to work.”
“You’d be surprised,” her father said. His voice took on a more formal tone. “One might say that Admiral Morrison was guilty of nothing more than trying to do his duty under trying circumstances.”
“One might say that,” Kat said, “but one would be wrong.”
Her father shrugged. “Be that as it may, you have been summoned to the palace,” he said, rising to his feet. “The War Cabinet wishes to speak with you. Don your best uniform, then meet me at the shuttlepad. And make damn sure you pin the Royal Lion to your chest. It should keep some of them from tearing a stripe off you.”
Kat nodded—the Royal Lion was the highest award for bravery in the Commonwealth—and then hurried back to her suite to change. Her maid was already there, laying out her uniform on the bed; Kat sighed—she’d long since grown used to doing everything for herself—and hastily changed her casual wear for the uniform. The maid flustered around her, wiping imaginary dust off her gold braid and shoulder pads, and then stepped backwards as Kat glowered at her. These days, the thought of having someone tend to her felt more than a little absurd.
“You look lovely, my lady,” the maid said. Kat tried to remember the girl’s name and failed. “The very picture of a modern naval officer.”
“Thank you,” Kat said. “I am a modern naval officer.”
The maid scurried away. Kat ignored her as she turned to face the wall and eyed herself in the mirror. The white uniform was deliberately designed to be uncomfortable, she was sure; she’d never met anyone who admitted to actually liking the Royal Navy’s dress uniform. The combination of gold braid and her medals looked spectacular, she had to admit, but it didn’t make up for the discomfort. Her blonde hair hung down her back; she tied it up into a long ponytail, then headed for the door. She knew from bitter experience that her father, at least, would not be happy if she was late. He was fond of charting out every last minute he spent awake, but his schedule for the day had already been ruined.
And that will make him look weak, she thought sourly. Countless meetings would have to be rescheduled; hundreds of people’s lives would be disrupted. His enemies will start to scent blood in the water.
It was a bitter thought. She disliked politics as much as she disliked High Society, but she understood the basic principles. King Hadrian had placed an awful lot of power in Duke Falcone’s hands when he’d made Kat’s father the Minister of War Production, and his enemies would be watching carefully, looking for signs that he was either abusing his power or unable to handle the challenge. Kat’s little outburst would have given them more ammunition to use against her father, if they chose to use it. And their forbearance would come with a price.
She gritted her teeth, feeling cold. She’d hoped to spend most of her life away from Tyre, perhaps assigned to patrolling the borders or defending worlds and trade routes against all threats. Instead . . . it struck her, suddenly, that her father’s enemies might seek to exile her, as if sending her away from her homeworld was a punishment. It was an amusing thought, but also a limiting one. She knew, all too well, that her exile wouldn’t be the only price her father’s enemies could extract.
Pushing the thought aside, she walked through the corridors and down to the shuttlepad, where an armored shuttle was already waiting. It was overkill, she was sure, but commandos had launched dozens of attacks on Tyre as part of the Theocracy’s opening gambit for the war. If there were any assault groups left, they might well take advantage of an opportunity to assassinate the Minister for War Production. And Kat herself was probably right at the top of their shit list, save perhaps for King Hadrian. Her lips quirked in bitter amusement. It was hard for her to comprehend that the Theocracy genuinely believed women to be inherently inferior to men, but if it made them feel worse about being defeated . . .
She shook her head as she climbed into the shuttle. Her father was already there, reading a datapad; beside him, Sandra, his personal assistant, had her head cocked as she scanned the datanet. Kat had never liked the woman and had a feeling that Sandra felt the same way about her too, although, as Kat was Duke Falcone’s daughter, there was nothing Sandra could do about it. Unless she’d deliberately presented the Duke with a warped picture of public reaction . . . no, it would be an insane risk for anyone to take. Sandra would be lucky to escape treason charges if she did anything other than present the exact truth, no matter how unpleasant or embarrassing. Kat pushed the thought aside, then settled back in her chair as the shuttle took off and headed towards the palace. They’d be back on the ground soon enough.
“You’ll be coming straight in with me,” her father said, looking up suddenly. “I imagine they will make arrangements for your return to the mansion.”
“Yes, father,” Kat said.
Her father eyed her for a long moment. “Where is young Davidson?”
“He is currently on training operations,” Kat said. She would have preferred to take her boyfriend to the ball, if only so she would have had someone to talk with that she actually liked, but the Marine Corps had found other work for him. Or had it been her father or Candy, seeking to ensure she’d had to socialize? “He’s due back this weekend.”
“Good,” her father said.
He said nothing else until the shuttle had landed and all three of them had been carefully checked out by a handful of heavily armed Marines. Kat hadn’t visited the Royal Palace very often, but she was quietly horrified by the sheer number of armored Marines and vehicles stationed around the low marble walls. The center of the government had become an armed camp, curled up and waiting for the next attack to begin. She had a feeling that most of it was just window dressing rather than serious preparations to handle an attack. If the Theocracy ever took the high orbitals, Tyre was doomed; the forces defending the palace could be obliterated from orbit if they refused to surrender or melt into the local population and vanish. Or, if the Theocracy didn’t give a damn about civilian casualties, a nuke hidden somewhere in the city could do considerable damage to the entire structure without having to breach the defenses.
“Right this way, Your Grace,” an equerry said. “They’re waiting for you in Conference Room A.”
Kat nodded, then eyed the young girl suspiciously. The uniform she wore drew the eye to her curves, but it was clearly cut to allow the wearer maximum freedom of movement. Kat would have bet half her salary that the young girl was an operative, probably an enhanced bodyguard; hardly anyone would take her seriously until she showed her true nature and by then it would probably be too late. She smiled, then pushed the thought aside. It was good to know the king was protected, even inside his palace.
They paused outside a wooden door, which opened slowly to reveal a conference room. A large table dominated the space, with five men sitting on the far side and a handful of wallflowers standing against the wall, under a large portrait of King Hadrian. Kat felt her blood run cold as she recognized the prime minister, the Leader of the Opposition, and Grand Admiral Tobias Vaughn, the First Space Lord. It was starting to look as though she was in real trouble. A room hadn’t felt so ominous to her since she’d attended a court-martial, after the incident on HMS Thunderous . . . and she had been a witness, not the one facing the full weight of military justice. It took all the discipline she had to hold herself steady as her father walked forward, then bowed politely to the prime minister.
“Duke Falcone,” Arthur Hampshire said. He looked at Kat. “Captain Falcone. Please, be seated.”
Kat obeyed, feeling as if her mouth was suddenly dry. She was barely aware of Sandra stepping backwards until she was standing against the wall, joining the other wallflowers. She had to force herself to look at the prime minister, meeting his gaze as steadily as she could despite her growing nervousness. He looked back at her, his face expressionless, as she hastily tried to recall everything she knew about him. She didn’t know him that well, although she’d met him at a couple of formal functions she would have preferred to avoid. He would have the confidence of the king, as well as the houses of Parliament; now, in wartime, he would have to gather and hold the confidence of the opposition as well.
“This meeting of the Commonwealth Defense Committee is called to order,” the prime minister said. “I must state for the record, here and now, that while we are currently serving as an informal fact-finding committee, our decisions will have a very real impact on the war.”
Kat had to fight not to clench her fists, silently cursing her family. Any other naval officer who shot their mouth off in public would be severely reprimanded by his or her superiors . . . or put in front of a court-martial, if the offense was serious enough to merit more than a verbal reprimand and a nasty note in their file. But she, the daughter of the Minister for War Production himself, couldn’t be handled gently, not when she’d accidentally kicked a political hornet’s nest. They needed to make it clear that she was being punished for her thoughtlessness before the opposition started feeling the heat from some of their supporters.
An informal committee, her thoughts mocked her. Of course it will have an impact on the war.
She glanced at her father, feeling suddenly out of place. If she’d been put in front of a court-martial, she would have known how to react; if she was being chewed out by her superior, she would have held herself steady and waited for him to run out of unpleasant things to call her. But this . . . the men in the room were the most powerful men in the Commonwealth, excepting only the king himself. They could wreck her career with a thought.
The prime minister met her eyes. “Perhaps, Captain Falcone, you could enlighten us as to what you were thinking last night?”
Kat winced inwardly. The Commonwealth Defense Committee couldn’t have expected to be summoned to deal with her; hell, her father wouldn’t be the only one whose schedule had been badly upset by the incident. But with a gadfly like Justin Deveron buzzing around, failing to deal with the problem as quickly and decisively as possible would cause all manner of problems. She’d been right . . .
. . . but she knew enough about High Society to know that being right was no defense.
“I was defending a fellow officer,” she said, finally. There was no point in trying to deny anything, not when most of the guests would have been using their implants to record the entire party for later analysis. “Mr. Deveron’s attacks on Admiral Christian were quite beyond the pale.”
“They are also not taken seriously,” the Leader of the Opposition said. “There was no need for you to defend the admiral.”
Kat met his eyes. “If I had failed to rebut the accusations,” she said, “it might have lent them credence.”
The prime minister smiled, humorlessly. “There is little so conspicuous as a man ducking for cover,” he said. “Your knee-jerk defense of a fellow officer might have lent credence to the charges against Admiral Christian . . . particularly, I might add, as you were trying to defend a position that seems flawed, even if it was entirely accurate. It was lucky, I suppose, that you didn’t indict Admiral Morrison. That would have set the reporter among the politicians.”
“It was not my intention to cause a political crisis,” Kat said, after a moment. She had difficulty in believing that any political crisis could be caused by ticking off a gadfly, but politics was a funny business. Maybe Deveron had friends who needed to stick up for him, if only to avoid being thought fools for believing his armchair theorizing. “If I have caused a problem, I sincerely apologize.”
“You have created a major headache,” the prime minister said. “Do you have anything you wish to say in your own defense?”
Kat hesitated, then took the plunge. “Merely that I should be on the front lines, not here,” she said. It was hard to keep the bitter frustration out of her voice. “I am profoundly unsuited to serve as a political or military spokesperson—or anything, apart from a starship commander.”
The prime minister nodded, then looked at the First Space Lord. “Tobias?”
Grand Admiral Vaughn nodded curtly. “Captain Katherine Falcone,” he said. “It is my obligation to inform you that your active duty career has been suspended, prior to a full investigation by a board of inquiry and possible court-martial proceedings. During this period of time . . .”
Kat barely heard him. The world seemed to fade out around her for a long moment, leaving her feeling dizzy and unwell. If she hadn’t been seated, she knew her legs would have buckled. Her career was doomed. Even if the inquiry decided in her favor, she would never hold command again. Telling off a gadfly had cost her everything and . . . and the best she could hope for was either to find private employment or remain stuck on Tyre.
“That won’t be necessary,” a commanding voice said.
Kat glanced up sharply. One of the wallflowers had stepped away from the wall, coming into the light. But who would dare to interrupt the grand admiral?
“It is remarkably hard to blame Captain Falcone for pointing out the many flaws in Deveron’s position,” the wallflower continued. “I do not see any reason she should be penalized for it.”
“Your Majesty,” the prime minister said. “There are political concerns . . .”
Kat stared. The king? She’d seen King Hadrian a few times, but he’d always been wearing robes or uniforms . . . both of which had drawn attention away from his face. He’d been able to blend into the wallflowers easily, simply because it would never have occurred to her to think of them as anything other than part of the furniture. But, now that she knew who it was, it was easy to match his face to the portrait hanging from the wall. Her father rose and bowed; she followed hastily, then returned to her seat. She’d never met the king formally outside court!
“But those political concerns pale in importance compared to winning the war,” King Hadrian said. He didn’t seem concerned about the lack of protocol. “Victory salves many wounds, Arthur, while defeat renders them immaterial.”
He took a seat at the end of the table, then smiled. “Captain Falcone, it is my very great pleasure to offer you command of Operation Knife,” he said. “I believe it would be ideally suited to your talents.”