They never picked on anyone their own size, she told herself. The Theocracy’s first targets had all been stage-one or stage-two worlds. Very few of them had any space-based defenses, let alone the ability to take the fight to the enemy. And the Theocrats certainly weren’t prepared for a long war.
Whitehall met her eyes. “We need more engineers, Admiral, and more protective troops. If we lose a couple more pumping stations . . .”
“I know,” Kat said. They’d come to the same conclusion time and time again, in pointless meeting after pointless meeting. “Right now, Tyre doesn’t seem to be interested in sending either.”
“We could try to hire civilian engineers,” Kitty suggested. She was the lowest-ranking person at the table, but that didn’t stop her from offering her opinions. “They could take up some of the slack.”
Whitehall snorted. “I doubt it,” he said. “There’s work in the Commonwealth for engineers, Lieutenant, and safer too. They won’t be in any danger on Tarsus or . . . well, anywhere. I don’t think we could get them out here.”
Kitty reddened. “I . . . sorry, Admiral.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Kat said, briskly. She looked around the table. “Are there any other solutions?”
“Not in the short run,” Whitehall said. “We have water and power, Admiral. It’s getting both to their destination that is the real problem. We’ve tried setting up purification centers near the sewers and . . .”
The building shook, gently. Kat tensed, one hand dropping to the pistol at her belt. That hadn’t been a homemade rocket. A nuke? The Theocracy had supposedly thrown its entire nuclear arsenal at the navy, but she’d never been entirely sure they’d used all their nukes. Hell, the Theocrats themselves hadn’t been sure. Their record keeping had been appalling. A nuke wouldn’t break the forcefield but would do immense damage to the city.
Winters checked his wristcom, then swore. “Admiral,” he said, “there’s been an explosion.”
“Where?” Kat stood. The blast had been very close. If the insurgents had managed to open a pathway into Commonwealth House, the defenders might be in some trouble. “And what happened?”
“Government House.” Winters sounded stunned. “The building is in ruins. Admiral, Admiral Junayd is dead.”
“. . . Shit,” Kat said.
CHAPTER TWO
TYRE
Peter Falcone—Duke Peter Falcone, he reminded himself savagely—stared at the heavy wooden doors and tried not to let his impatience show on his face. He was no callow youth, although he’d grown up in the shadows of Duke Lucas Falcone; he was one of the single most wealthy and powerful people on Tyre. It hadn’t been easy to convince enough of the family to back him, even though he was Lucas’s oldest child, but he’d made it. The Falcone family was in his hands now. He had no intention of failing in his duty to his people.
Assuming I ever get through my investiture, he thought as he looked at the doors. They were firmly closed, awaiting the king’s pleasure. Who thought it was a good idea to come up with such . . . such pageantry?
He snorted at the thought. The planet’s founders, including his great-grandfather, had created a corporate state. There had been fourteen corporations, at the time, and they’d divided the world up between them. It had been simple enough, he’d thought, but, to give the whole enterprise a veneer of legitimacy, they’d turned the planet into a monarchy, with the most powerful CEO declared king. And it had grown from there into a tangled system that worked . . . mostly. But the founders had never imagined the Breakdown, or the Commonwealth, or, worst of all, the recently concluded war.
And they didn’t imagine one of the corporations collapsing either, Peter told himself. The Ducal Fourteen had always seemed too big to fail. But the Cavendish Corporation was on the verge of total collapse, and Peter had a nasty feeling that others might follow. His own corporation was barely treading water. We never imagined having to splash out so much money on everything from weapons development to force projection.
It was a sour point, one that had stuck in his craw ever since he’d discovered just how much money had been expended—and just how much remained unaccounted for. The government had raised taxes, as well as asked for voluntary contributions from the big corporations, but its accounting had been poor. The desperate rush to put as many warships into space as possible had done nothing for financial discipline. Peter was uneasily aware that nearly 30 percent of the budget for the last four years had vanished into black projects, projects he wasn’t supposed to know about. It was a staggering amount of money, truly unimaginable, and it was one of the bones the House of Lords wanted to pick with the king. And yet, it wasn’t the worst of them.
Trumpets blared. The doors were thrown open, revealing a pair of uniformed flunkies and, beyond them, the House of Lords. Peter pasted a neutral expression on his face as he began to walk forward, wondering just how many people were watching him make a fool of himself through the datanet. The entire ceremony was being broadcast live. His father had made the ceremony look solemn and dignified, but Peter suspected he looked like an idiot. The fancy robes and stylized hair came from a bygone era.
And true power lies in money, warships, and troops, he thought as he walked into the chamber. I could wear rags and Eau de Skunk, and I’d still be one of the most powerful men in the known universe.
He allowed his
