“Second, we have a responsibility to provide security for our territory, both within the Commonwealth and the occupied zone. There is, quite simply, no one else who will provide any form of interstellar security. We must deploy starships to protect planets and shipping lanes, and we must deploy troops to protect refugee populations and provide support to various provisional governments. The Jorlem Sector became increasingly lawless as a result of the war, honorable members. Do we really want the Theocratic Sector to go the same way?”
Harrison stood. “Is it going to be a threat to us?”
Vaughn looked back at him, evenly. “We have confiscated the remaining enemy industrial production nodes,” he said. “In the short term, chaos in the Theocratic Sector will be very bad for the locals and largely irrelevant to us. However, in the long term, there will be pirates, raiders, and revanchists taking root within the sector. I submit to you, sir, that those forces will eventually become a threat.”
“But the Theocracy is dead.” Harrison tapped his foot on the ground. “How long do you want to continue to fight the war?”
“Until we win,” Vaughn said. “Right now, sir, the sector is unstable, and we’re the only thing keeping it under control.”
“We have a debt of honor,” King Hadrian said.
“A debt of honor we cannot afford to meet,” Harrison said curtly. He didn’t quite glare at the king. “And a debt of honor that was entered into without Parliament’s consent.”
Peter groaned, inwardly, as the debate grew louder. Harrison was right, of course. The king had promised much and, so far, delivered little. But the king had made promises he’d had no right to make, certainly not without Parliament’s approval. No wonder his government wanted to keep emergency taxation powers. It was the only way to keep his promises to the Commonwealth.
And yet, we simply cannot afford to rebuild all the Theocracy’s infrastructure, he thought. The expenditure would be unimaginably huge. Even trying would be disastrous.
He groaned again. It was going to be a very long day.
CHAPTER THREE
TYRE
“Observers on Ahura Mazda confirm that Admiral Junayd, the head of the provisional government, was killed in an explosion,” the talking head said. “Admiral Junayd was the Theocracy’s best naval officer prior to his defection, after which . . .”
Commodore Sir William McElney snorted rudely in the direction of the display screen, then returned his attention to his beer. The bar was a spacers’ bar, with hundreds of men and women coming in, ordering drinks, and chatting to their mates in hopes of finding work on a starship before they ran out of money and had to go down to the planetary surface. It wasn’t easy. William had discovered, upon his return to Tyre, that vast numbers of spacers had been released from the navy, and now that the drawdown was in full effect, there were ten spacers for every posting, perhaps more. The freighter captains could pick and choose as they wished.
He took a sip of his beer, wondering just how long it would be before a fight broke out. Raw desperation hung in the air like a physical force. Spacers hated going down to the ground, even for short periods, yet most of them knew it was just a matter of time before they were marched to the shuttles and unceremoniously sent down. Orbit Station Beta was immense, easily large enough to swallow a number of superdreadnoughts in its hull, but it didn’t have room for thousands of spacers. A fight might kill the hopes of anyone involved when they were caught by the guards. These days, the shore patrol was extremely intolerant of anyone who caused trouble.
His lips twitched, sourly. It had been his fault, as much as anything. He could have stayed in the navy if he’d wished. But the refugees from Hebrides had needed his help . . . he’d thought. They were a hardy people but weren’t used to the Commonwealth . . . or what life was like outside their dead homeworld. The refugee community hadn’t precisely collapsed, not completely, but the youngsters had started to embrace the ways of their new homeworld and the older folk had been unable to stop them. William wasn’t sure he blamed the youth either. He’d kept some of his homeworld’s practices, after he’d joined the navy, but not all. A whole new world was opening up in front of the youngsters, a world where they could do more with their lives. And no one could stand in their way.
He glanced at his wristcom as the talking head started to babble about sports results. She was late. He wasn’t even sure why she’d chosen a bar to meet . . . unless it was an elaborate joke of some kind. Perhaps it had been a joke. Like it or not, he was no common spacer. How many captains would want to hire a man who technically outranked them, someone who might not be aware that the captain was the ultimate authority on his ship? That was a matter of law—a captain could give orders to an admiral—but rank sometimes did odd things to brains. An admiral might forget that his rank didn’t put him above the law.
A rustle ran through the room as someone stepped through the door. William looked up and lifted his eyebrows. The woman was no spacer. That much was clear, just by looking at her. She wore a white suit that hinted at curves without revealing them, her blonde hair in a long plait that reached down to her hips, and a faint professional smile. William nodded to himself, then raised a hand in greeting. She nodded back as she walked over to the table and sat down.
“Commodore William McElney?” Her lightly accented voice suggested she already knew the answer. “A pleasure to meet you in person.”
“Likewise,” William said. He didn’t recognize her accent, although he was fairly sure that she’d spent
