Colin scowled. The news of Wakanda had come in last night; a first-rank world, the least of the first-rank worlds, had fallen to Admiral Wilhelm, almost without a fight. They hadn’t even placed a destroyer in a position to observe the battle and report to the Imperial Navy, so the only visuals they had of the battle came from a freighter captain who had risked her ship to record as much as she could… and it wasn’t enough to help calculate losses. The only point that everyone could agree on was that Wakanda had been crushed and occupied.
His eyes fell on the starchart. Assuming that Admiral Wilhelm left at once, he was going to be within two weeks of Earth, or days of the next possible target world. Colin privately suspected that Admiral Wilhelm wouldn’t bother punching out other first-rank worlds — it wouldn’t actually gain him anything beyond more enemies — but instead he would come straight for Earth. It might even win him some allies among the first-rank worlds if he made the right promises and offered the right deals. They didn’t even have an accurate read on his fleet’s strength, which meant that Colin couldn’t spare anything from Earth to reinforce the first-rank worlds. The war seemed to have faded into a state where the best he could do was wait to be hit.
“That may be true,” Colin said, dragging his attention back to the two men. It was true and, without false modesty, he knew it. Joshua Wachter, irony of ironies, might have been the only other person who could have held the Imperial Navy together, but he was officially dead. God alone knew what had happened to him, or what Tiberius had in mind, but Colin had some very nasty suspicions. “It’s also not up for debate. I have to attend the wedding.”
Frandsen scowled. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Colin nodded. Frandsen was rarely so formal. “Sir, with all due respect, it’s a mistake, a stupid mistake. You will be venturing into the lion’s den, a place controlled by a person whom you know wants to kill you and destroy all that you stand for. You may as well paint a big target on your back and tattoo the words ‘please shoot here’ on your forehead.”
Colin smiled without humour. “Neil…”
“It’s not an issue of showing bravery under fire, or even under threat of fire,” Frandsen continued. “You’re not a young and expendable Midshipman any longer. God knows I have sent young Marines to their deaths, expecting — knowing — that some of the young men and women will die, but I had no choice. When I served as their commander, I could not take foolish risks…”
“You did lead the boarding party back at Macore personally,” Anderson observed.
Frandsen scowled at him before turning his attention back to Colin. “You should not attend this wedding,” he said, firmly. “Sir, please…”
“I must agree with Neil,” Anderson said, flatly. The kindest thing he normally said about Marines was that they were knuckle-dragging cavemen. Colin had rarely heard him actually agreeing outright with Frandsen, who competed with him for Colin’s attention. “I do not believe that we can guarantee your safety.”
“My safety isn’t the issue,” Colin said.
“Your safety is the Empire’s safety,” Frandsen said, tiredly. He rolled his eyes just enough to venture into insubordination. “See previous rant.”
“And see mine,” Colin said, softly. “I cannot not attend the wedding, Neil.”
“I know,” Frandsen said. “God help us.”
“But we will take precautions,” Colin said. He leaned forward. “I don’t know if Tiberius actually does intend to try something stupid at the wedding, but if he does, I want to be ready for him.”
“He’ll do more than try,” Frandsen said. He glowered down at the floor, as if he were expecting it to sprout weapons and try to kill them. The Empire had been known to use booby-traps to kill the unwary in the past. “If he can’t kill you with all the odds in his favour…”
He left the sentence unfinished.
“I know,” Colin said. They shared a tight grin. “This is what we are going to do.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The planet of Wakanda, Admiral Wilhelm decided, after his brief victory tour, was a dump. It wasn’t just the government, or what was left of it after outraged crowds vented their feelings on everyone they could reach, or the damage left after police skimmers had used heavy weapons on unprotected crowds, but the very feeling of despondency that seemed to lie everywhere. The slums surrounding the spaceport, filled with more unproductive men, women and children than he’d ever seen in his life, the crumbling cities, the obvious criminal gangs preying on anyone who wasn’t well-protected… the entire planet was falling apart. He’d skimmed through one of the government’s broachers, trying to convince the people that all was well, and had had to laugh. Wakanda had no past, no present… and no future.
He scowled as the last of the planet’s governing class was finally evicted out of the airlock, his overweight body spinning in space as he clawed hopelessly for salvation, or a rescue that would never come. The man had been a murderer many times over, just through sheer stupidity and ignorance. He’d had no choice, but to make a brutal example of the Wakanda Space Navy, even though it was definitely overkill. The new government he had installed on the planet, one loyal to him with the forces required to back up its demands, could only be an improvement, but Wakanda was too far gone to be saved. Shock treatment was required, but he didn’t have the time, ort the motivation. It would be a project for a more peaceful time.
“The fat arsehole will be burning up in a few hours,” Captain Keene assured him. He’d served with Admiral Wilhelm long enough to be completely trusted. “The people down on the surface will cheer.”
“Perhaps,” Admiral Wilhelm agreed. The people of Wakanda would be nursing their wounds after their government had put their revolution down so savagely. They certainly didn’t have the experience or determination to rebuild their shattered world. He rather suspected that most of the younger population would try to emigrate, leaving the older population to die, unless they were recruited into his forces first. There were worlds governed by the worst of the Thousand Families, the ones so embarrassing that they were effectively banned from Earth, that were better run. “It’s not our concern anyway.”
He took one last look at the dwindling figure, drifting down towards the planet as tradition dictated for the death of a traitor, before pushing it from his mind. An overweight person was apparently a powerful person on Wakanda, for reasons that might even make sense, given that the planet was barely capable of feeding its teeming masses. The planet would just have to learn — he smiled thinly — to trim the fat. If they didn’t learn, the consequences of their disastrous government would catch up with them and impose their own solution.
“Come on,” he said, and led the way out of the airlock’s control room. Keene followed him silently until they finally reached his flag cabin. Without Carola, whose taste was so much better than his own, he had stripped out most of the artworks and placed them in storage, replacing them with a large tactical display. It was blinking alarmingly when they entered and he pulled up the message… and swore.
“They hit Ysalt,” he said, and swore again. The rebels had hit back hard… and, somehow, had picked a near-perfect target. The effectively-complete destruction of the supply dumps would impose strict limits on how far his fleet could operate, a desperate attempt to buy time… that would work, unless he could find a way to operate without the supplies. “They didn’t occupy the world, but they didn’t have to waste their time trying.”