The Oncoming Storm (54 page)

“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 loathe 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 proven 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, forcing 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.