“The subsidies, both to the Commonwealth and the former Theocratic worlds, are a different kettle of fish. In the short run, canceling them would save money; in the long run, they would cause economic trouble for our allies, which would lead to resentment. I’d honestly advise doing a full audit on the subsidies before we consider canceling them, but . . .”
He shrugged, expressively. Peter understood. The king considered the subsidies to be a necessary payment, one of his flagship projects to build the Commonwealth into a genuine interstellar power. Peter agreed with his reasoning, but he was concerned about the cost of the project. When times were good, people didn’t care where the money went; when times were hard, people got angry when payments, even minor ones, were made to those who didn’t work. People who paid taxes felt they should get something in return and woe betide any government official who tried to tell them otherwise.
“Right,” he said. “I assume you have proposals for . . . downsizing?”
“Yes, sir,” Alexander said. He altered the display. “As you can see, sir . . .”
Peter’s terminal bleeped. He held up a hand to stem the tide of words as he keyed the switch. “Yes?”
“Sir,” Yasmeena Delacroix said. His terrifyingly efficient secretary sounded perturbed. “His Excellency Israel Harrison, Leader of the Opposition, has just landed on the pad. He’s requesting an immediate meeting.”
Peter blinked in surprise. He’d heard that Israel Harrison was supposed to be a little eccentric, but this? He couldn’t just drop in for a meeting with a duke, certainly not on his home territory. Normally, his people would speak to Peter’s people, and a time and place would be organized. There were plenty of places they could talk in reasonable privacy without one of them looking like a supplicant. Dropping in for a chat simply wasn’t done.
He forced himself to think. Agreeing to the meeting would have implications, particularly in the minds of anyone watching from a distance, but so would refusing it. He was a duke, not a member of the House of Commons. There was nothing wrong with meeting the Leader of the Opposition. And yet . . .
“Have him shown up,” Peter said, finally. “And then bring us some tea.”
He closed the connection, then looked at the two men. “I’ll speak to you both later, after I’ve had a chance to assess your work,” he said. He had no doubt it would be comprehensively detailed, but he wanted to make sure he understood the data before coming to any final decisions. He’d learned to watch for people trying to snowball him into making a fatal mistake. “Until then, please keep your findings to yourself.”
“Of course, sir,” Alexander said. He deactivated the holographic projector. “Our files are already in your terminal.”
The two men rose, bowed, and made their way out of the giant office. Peter barely noticed them go as he pulled up the files on Israel Harrison and skimmed them, quickly. His father hadn’t had much to say about the Leader of the Opposition, beyond the simple fact that he’d started amassing power from a very young age. Not a nobleman, oddly enough. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of that. Putting himself on the list of people in line to receive a Patent of Nobility wouldn’t be hard. Perhaps the king, or the previous king, had quietly refused to ennoble the man. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had been denied a title they deserved.
“Israel Harrison, Your Grace,” Yasmeena said.
Peter rose. “Mr. Harrison,” he said as they shook hands. “I must say this meeting is a surprise.”
“I have often found that being unpredictable has its advantages,” Harrison said. He sounded distinctly plebeian in private conversation. “Is this room secure?”
Peter sat back at his desk, motioning the older man to a seat. “It has the finest security money can buy,” he said truthfully. The corporation’s security division swept the entire building daily. Industrial espionage had been alive and well on Tyre since the Ducal Fourteen had turned the world into their base. “You can talk freely.”
“Let us hope so,” Harrison said. He cocked his head. “I trust you are settling into your new role?”
Peter snorted as Yasmeena brought them both tea, then retired. He’d been the Duke from the moment the family council had elected him to succeed his father. The Duke was dead, long live the Duke. There was no way he could afford to wait a year before taking the reins. The family council would have impeached him on the spot.
“It could be better,” he said tightly. He met Harrison’s eyes. “Mr. Harrison, I am a very busy man, and you have forced your way into my schedule. Can I ask you to get to the point?”
Harrison smiled, as if Peter had cracked a joke. “Here’s a question for you,” he said. “Do you believe the king has the best interests of his planet at heart?”
Peter blinked. “Do you believe otherwise?”
“I have reason to believe that the king does not intend to ask for the military tax to be repealed,” Harrison said. “Worse, I believe that he has yet to realize that his spending—our spending—is dangerously out of control. My people have been trying to trace the money, Your Grace, and there are considerable sums that remain unaccounted for. We don’t know where the money went.”
“They were throwing money into hundreds of research programs,” Peter pointed out. “And a lot of black ops stuff.”
“Billions of crowns,” Harrison said. “A small fraction of our wartime budget, to be fair, but not an insignificant amount. Our desperate rush to gird our loins and defend our worlds made it impossible to exercise any financial discipline.”
“When you’re in trouble,” Peter quoted one of his father’s speeches, “don’t count the pennies getting legal representation.”
“Wise words,” Harrison agreed. “I was there when that speech was
