“Perhaps,” Peter said. He wasn’t sure how he’d cope if someone dumped him on a completely foreign planet. “She is to be commended for her success.”
He took a sip of his coffee, wondering if he dared suggest that they got to the point. His time was money, a point his father had drilled into him from birth. Social chitchat to break the ice was important, he’d been told, but . . . not when he had too many things he needed to attend to personally. He couldn’t fob everything off on his assistants.
The king seemed to sense his thoughts. “I’ll come straight to the point,” he said, sipping his own coffee. “I would like your support on the budget proposal.”
Peter blinked. He’d wanted to get to the point, but like that . . . ?
He composed himself. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Your Majesty,” he said carefully. “Right now, the budget proposal is unacceptable.”
“Unacceptable is a harsh word,” the king said placidly.
“Yes,” Peter agreed. “But it is also an accurate one. The kingdom cannot afford to meet the spending commitments you propose. Nor can we keep taxation at its current level without risking economic disaster. We have to staunch the bleeding before we bleed to death.”
He had to struggle to keep his frustration out of his voice. The king had to know that his proposed budget was never going to pass. Everyone from the Royal Corporation’s trustees to talking heads on the datanet had drawn the same conclusion. The king had to listen to the trustees, didn’t he? Peter was sure the Royal Corporation was in the same boat as the rest of the corporations. Cavendish might merely be the first to fall. If the crash was bad enough, the rest of the corporations would quickly follow.
Uncharted territory, he thought.
“I appreciate that you are focused on financial affairs,” the king said quietly. “However, as the monarch of the kingdom and the Commonwealth, I have to remain focused on the larger picture. In the short run, my analysts project there will indeed be some pain from implementing the budget; in the long run, they assure me that our economy, our interstellar economy, will be on a stronger footing. Furthermore . . .”
He took another sip of his coffee. “Furthermore, there are other issues involved than simple money. Peter . . . are you aware of the stresses and strains threatening to tear the Commonwealth apart? We do not want the member worlds to feel alienated from the Commonwealth, let alone Tyre itself. They made sacrifices to win the war too.”
Peter looked back at him, as evenly as he could. “Would they be happier if we made the promises and then broke them, or if we simply never made the promises at all?”
“Commitments were made,” the king said. “And not just the ones I made. My father was able to convince his parliaments to make and underwrite promises to the original set of member worlds. Those promises have to be kept.”
“The Commonwealth Charter is not a suicide pact,” Peter observed. “And the blunt fact remains that we are on the cusp of an economic recession. We need to cut back, now, before it’s too late.”
“And then what?” The king nodded to the protesters. “Will we dump uncounted millions of people onto the streets? Because we will, you know.”
Peter scowled. “I suppose we could build a few hundred new superdreadnoughts,” he said, dryly. “It would keep dockyard workers employed, would it not? But what would we do with them afterwards? Who is going to want to buy more superdreadnoughts? Even if the member worlds wanted to buy a superdreadnought or two, they wouldn’t be able to run them without . . .”
The king cut him off. “That’s why I’m suggesting a massive investment in industrial nodes right across the Commonwealth,” he said, sharply. “There will be work for everyone.”
“I see your logic,” Peter said. It made a certain kind of sense, if one failed to understand where tax actually came from. “But we simply don’t have the cash to pay for it. And we’ve gone over this again and again and again!”
“My analysts say otherwise,” the king said, sharply.
“I’d be very interested in seeing that analysis,” Peter said, resisting the urge to snap back at him. “Because my analysts say that even trying to implement the budget will push us over the edge. And even if we’re lucky enough to avoid immediate disaster, revenue will be down so significantly that we’ll suffer another revenue shortfall next year.”
The king looked at him for a long moment. “Are you saying no?”
Peter looked back at him. “I’m saying the budget will not pass through the Houses of Parliament,” he said flatly. “And even if it does, your planned taxation will not raise enough funds to pay for your pet projects.”
“And you’ll resist me,” the king said. “You . . . you will stop me from saving us from a far greater disaster.”
Peter stiffened. “If I have to,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better to come to some kind of compromise. If the budget was to be modified . . .”
“Rewritten, you mean,” the king said.
“Yes,” Peter said. “Right now, it will not pass.”
“I have a duty to the kingdom,” the king told him. “And I will do whatever I have to do to uphold that duty.”
Peter felt ice running down his spine. Was that a threat? The big corporations wielded immense economic power, but . . . could the king threaten them? It was possible, he had to admit. Too many people in the navy owed their positions to the king. The orbital defense network was under Parliament’s control, as per the original agreements, but the king might have been meddling there too. And . . .
He kept his face impassive with an effort. How had his father managed to
