Peter’s lips twitched. As if we didn’t have staff to keep an eye on the markets for us.
A low rustle ran through the hall as the prime minister and the Leader of the Opposition entered together, another bit of symbolism that irritated Peter more than he cared to admit. No one expected Prime Minister Arthur Hampshire and Israel Harrison to be friends, although they were supposed to understand that their real job was keeping the government running. Disagreement was one thing, and there were plenty of legal ways to challenge or reverse government policy, but outright opposition could never be tolerated. Such a stance was practically treason.
Not practically, Peter told himself. Identical.
He studied the prime minister for a long moment, frowning. Arthur Hampshire was the king’s man, through and through. He was simply too much of a nonentity to hold any position without a powerful patron. And he’d do whatever it took to make sure he kept his position. Politics was a drug, and Arthur Hampshire, like so many others, was addicted. Peter had read his father’s files very carefully. Hampshire had proved a loyal client to his master.
A trumpet blared as the king himself strode into the hall, wearing a black naval uniform covered in gold braid. Peter had to admit that it made the younger man look devilishly handsome, although he rather doubted the king had any moral right to wear it. Technically, the king was commander-in-chief of the navy; practically . . . Peter scowled. The king had swapped enough personnel around in the last couple of years to ensure that his clients were in control of most of the navy. It was fairly normal for a patron to do everything in his power to promote his clients—their success was his success—but the latest moves worried Peter. Israel Harrison had been right. The king was starting to challenge the structures set up to limit his power.
He stood, along with everyone else, as the king walked to his chair. It wasn’t precisely a throne, but the chair was large enough to signify he was in charge symbolically at least. Peter eyed the king thoughtfully, wondering if that really was frustrated ambition in his eyes. He’d had to see off a handful of challenges from family members who thought they should be in charge. The king was already so powerful that any restraints had to seem intolerable. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
The king stood in front of his throne, clasping his hands behind his back in parade rest. He had never been in the armed forces, yet his posture was perfect. Peter kept his face impassive as the room waited, wondering what the pose meant. The king had never been in the military, but neither had Peter himself. And while the files insisted that his lack of military service grated on the king, Peter wasn’t so sure. He’d never had any ambitions to command starships or wage war on distant worlds. The thought of wading through a muddy swamp or crawling across a bloody battlefield was enough to make him feel queasy. And yet, he’d never really had a choice in life. He’d been the firstborn. He’d been trained to succeed his father from birth. He dreaded to think what his father would have said if Peter had asked for a naval commission.
Kat managed to join the navy, he reminded himself. But Kat was never required to serve the family.
He felt an odd flicker of envy, which he ruthlessly suppressed. The king was beginning his speech.
“We won the war,” he said. “Four years ago, we feared we would lose; now, with the enemy crushed and our forces occupying their worlds, we know that we have won. But victory on the battlefield does not always translate to victory on the political field. The cost of war has been high, in both blood and treasure. Millions of lives have been lost; millions more, alas, have become refugees, fleeing in hopes of finding a safety that does not exist. The liberated worlds face many problems in adapting to an existence without the Theocracy . . .
“And now, we discover that a sizable number of enemy starships survived long enough to resume the offensive. We have all seen the reports from Judd.”
Peter kept his face impassive. He’d seen the official reports, of course, but his clients in the MOD had also slipped him copies of the reports that hadn’t been made part of the public record. They’d confirmed that the enemy starships were receiving help from someone, although they didn’t know who. There was a list of potential suspects attached to one of the reports, but Peter suspected that it would be difficult to find actual proof. Whoever was helping the Theocrats wouldn’t want to be identified.
“We must secure our victory,” the king told them. “We made commitments, both to the Commonwealth and to the liberated worlds; we promised the former that we’d help them rebuild and the latter that we’d provide protection long enough for them to stand on their own two feet. And now, with a resurgent enemy threat, it is more imperative than ever that we meet our commitments. Failure now will be disastrous. On one hand, our standing as an interstellar power is at risk; on the other, perhaps more importantly, millions of lives are at risk. Judd was the first world to be attacked. It will not be the last.
“There are those who say that we should back off, that we should withdraw our ships and troops and leave the Theocratic Sector to its own devices. But I say that to do so would be a betrayal of everyone who died in the war. We bought our victory with their lives. We owe it to them
