They can’t ignore us any longer, he thought. A dull quiver ran through the superdreadnought as she picked up speed. If any enemy ships had the presence of mind to try to track the retreating fleet, they’d find it a difficult task. And as long as they can’t find us, we can jab at them at will.
CHAPTER THIRTY
TYRE
All this room needs, Peter thought as the guests were ushered into the conference room, is dim lights and someone smoking in the background.
He smiled at the thought, although what was happening wasn’t funny. News of the convoy disaster—the convoy slaughter, the media were calling it—had hit Tyre two days ago. The recriminations had been immense, drowned out only by accusations of everything from carelessness to betrayal and outright treason. Parliament had been cleared, twice, when MPs had practically started fighting on the chamber floor, while protest marches on the streets outside had turned into riots. Peter was old enough to remember the Putney Debates, back when the Commonwealth had been founded, but they had never been so bad. His security officers had reported that the volume of threats against MPs, the aristocracy, and the king himself had quadrupled. Peter had responded by reinforcing the armed guards around the mansion, corporate offices, and orbiting facilities.
Either someone fucked up badly, he told himself, or someone openly betrayed us.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought. In absolute terms, as Masterly and Masterly had made clear to him, the disaster wasn’t particularly serious. Losing the freighters was more of a problem than losing their cargos. But, from a political point of view, it was a nightmare. The average man on the streets didn’t care much about the populations of worlds that he’d never seen and probably never would. But the loss of an entire convoy was a far more serious matter.
He took the chair the usher offered him and surveyed the room. It was bland, save for a state portrait of the king in his military uniform and a small drinks cabinet, but that was in many ways a sign of the room’s true importance. The king and his government had no need to make a blatant show of wealth and power, not in his private hunting lodge. He couldn’t help feeling a thrill of excitement as the king entered, followed by the prime minister and Grand Admiral Tobias Vaughn. Parliament might debate and pass laws, but here, here was where the real decisions were made. Peter looked at Israel Harrison, his face blank, and Duke Rudbek, looking grim. Being here was clear proof that a man had made it. No one would be invited to such a meeting without being extremely powerful in political or economic terms.
And the prime minister started from the bottom, Peter reminded himself. No wonder he’s so devoted to the king.
The ushers moved around the table, distributing tea and biscuits, then retreated silently through the wooden doors. Peter glanced at his datapad, unsurprised to see that the link to the datanet, even the ultrasecure connection to the family datacores, had failed. The room was as secure as modern technology and human ingenuity could make it. Even a very basic recorder wouldn’t operate within a privacy field.
“I believe we can skip the formalities,” the king said. “Admiral?”
Tobias Vaughn cleared his throat. “We have recordings of the engagement from Maxwell’s Haven, as well as the surviving warships,” he said. “I can confirm that fifty-seven freighters and fourteen warships were either destroyed or heavily damaged during the brief encounter, although they took five enemy warships with them. The enemy fleet chose to retreat after losing one of their superdreadnoughts . . .”
“Which is lucky for us, I suppose,” Harrison said sarcastically. “How did our ships wind up in that position again?”
Vaughn looked embarrassed. “We are still conducting an investigation,” he said. “It may have been simple misjudgment . . .”
“A misjudgment that led to the loss of more than seventy ships,” Harrison said. “What happened?”
“When the . . . emergency situation began, when the enemy ships revealed themselves, we designated emergence zones for worlds like Maxwell’s Haven and Ahura Mazda,” Vaughn said. “It was determined that any ships that returned to realspace outside the emergence zones would be considered hostile. You may recall that we took similar precautions during the war. In this case, the emergence zones ensured that the ships returned to realspace at a roughly predictable location. The enemy took advantage of it.”
Harrison glared. “And how did they know to have their ships be there on time?”
“The convoy made a layover at Cadiz, before crossing the Gap,” Vaughn reminded him, grimly. “It’s quite possible that someone at Cadiz passed on a message to the enemy commanders. The Theocrats spent decades, literally, building up a network of spies and informers right across their territory. I don’t believe that we have successfully rounded up or neutralized all of them.”
“The timing doesn’t work,” Harrison said. “My staff ran the numbers too, Admiral. They believe that the enemy fleet must have been alerted much earlier.”
I need to check with Kat, Peter thought as the Leader of the Opposition and the Grand Admiral locked eyes. She might be able to shed more light on the situation.
He scowled, inwardly. It might have been a mistake to let Kat run so free for so long. She’d devoted herself to the navy, not to the family. And that meant she couldn’t be relied upon to put the family first.
“They do not have access to a StarCom,” Harrison insisted. “If they did, Admiral, we would have tracked them down long ago.”
“But we have been emplacing StarComs ourselves, in threatened systems,” Vaughn countered. “They may have used our own system against us.”
“Which should not have been allowed,” Harrison said. “The investment alone . . .”
The king tapped the table, sharply. “The Inspectorate General will
