The same reservations dictated that Jacob would continue his investigations into Powers’ background, because that part of the job never stopped – ever.
“We will proceed as we are,” said Jacob. “If and when we confirm Powers’ credentials, we will reassess the situation and then act accordingly. Understood?”
“As you wish,” said Goss sourly. Then he turned abruptly on his heels and stalked from the room.
Jacob exhaled slowly. Goss was an officer, a major in the security services – indeed, he was one of the youngest majors on the list – but Jacob held the nominal rank of colonel. It had been a very long time since he’d actually donned the uniform but the rank still held. In any other branch of the service, Goss’s behavior would have been insolent, bordering on insubordinate. It was true that while in enemy territory, normal military protocol was shunted to one side but Jacob was old school – even in the absence of convention there was still a place for deference and respect. Goss seemed to have little time for either.
It was another red flag. Since arriving on station several months previously, Goss had become gradually more difficult to supervise; control may have been the more accurate word. He followed instructions – probably – but of late it was either grudgingly or condescendingly, to the point that Jacob wondered if the man had his own personal agenda. From the start, Jacob had found Goss a difficult man to like; he’d been aloof, slightly snobbish, pompous, even, but that was starting to spill over into arrogance and disdain. Whether the change was fuelled by pride or his patronage by those in high places, who could say? If it was pride, the next step would be over confidence, which would make Goss as dangerous to his friends as his enemies; perhaps more so.
Jacob rubbed his fingers in slow circles around his temples. He had enough problems without having to worry about an obstreperous lieutenant. Goss and people like him were but a product of their time; they lived in an age where patience had ceased to be a virtue and inactivity had almost become a sin. They were driven to act, to do something – anything – rather than nothing, however badly the ‘something’ in question might turn out. It was an exaggeration, he knew, perhaps even a gross one, but the clamor to achieve results was real enough, and judging by the decision to attack the NT, it was as prevalent within the Combine high command as it was among men like Goss.
Times had changed. Was he the one that had failed to change with them? Had he spent too many years living among the enemy and irrevocably stuck in the old ways?
When Jacob had first set foot on Tycho, neither the Alliance nor the Combine existed as political entities. They were just two loose federations, each promoting trade and co-operation between their member worlds.
It was a full ten years before the outbreak of hostilities when Erik Rowe upped roots and relocated his family to Tycho. They’d all been sorry to leave their home on Minden 3, but Tycho had just offered better opportunities for the ambitious businessman that Rowe was. Leaving the economic backwater of Minden behind, Rowe invested his life savings in a small import/export business in Tycho City. Through a combination of hard work and sound business acumen, the company soon began to flourish. Ten years later, Rowe & Son had become one of the most successful independent trading houses in Tycho City. The future looked assured, but then news of the first skirmishes started to filter down. At first, it was unclear exactly who was fighting whom, or even for what reason, but as the conflict spread and escalated, there occurred a natural division as world after world aligned itself with its neighbors. Although there would still be a period of jostling, a hard border between the two great powers was beginning to emerge. As it gradually took shape, it became clear that the Rowe family was going to find itself on the wrong side of the line. Their friends, relatives, indeed their very roots, lay inside the realm of the newly styled Combined Worlds.
But there was still the hope that all concerned would step back from the brink and that cooler heads would prevail. ‘It’ll all be over by Founder’s Day’ predicted one news feed optimistically. ‘Sense will surely prevail, an accord will be reached and peace restored; a peace that will be guaranteed for generations to come’.
But Founder’s Day came and went and there was still no end in sight, the hostilities only increasing in brutality as the newly assembled regional government mobilized ever more militia-men and ships.
It was around that time that Maybelline Rowe broached the subject of returning home to Minden 3. The rest of their family was there, her mother was there, and if things continued like this, who knew how much longer the border might remain open? And if the situation worsened still more, what kind of future might they expect on Tycho? Who knew what further ordeals the future might bring? Erik Rowe found himself in reluctant agreement. He resolved to escort Maybelline and the two girls back to Minden 3, leaving his son Marcus in charge of company affairs pending his return. After that, they’d assess the situation and if the worst came to the worst, they’d sell up and leave Tycho for good.
On the day of their departure, Marcus made the short trip to Loyola Air Terminal to see his family safely on their way. Standing by the departure gate, he kissed mother, gave each of his sisters a hug and gave his father solemn assurance that Rowe & Son was in safe hands until his return. Waving goodbye as they disappeared through the revolving doors, he made his way to the observation lounge to watch the shuttle begin its journey up to the space dock in orbit around Tycho. There, the Rowe family would board the hyper-liner that would take them to the independent world of Sanda, from whence they would make the transit to Minden 3.
It was the last time that Marcus Rowe saw his family alive. Their hyper-liner was intercepted by some kind of raider en route to Sanda. A garbled Mayday was picked up but by the time friendly units arrived on the scene, all that was to be found was an expanding debris field which contained the shattered remains of the hyper-liner, its crew and four hundred passengers. There were no survivors, there were no witnesses. Some would later say that it was the first recorded atrocity of the conflict, but committed by whom? The Combine claimed it was a privateer in the employ of the newly formed Alliance. The Alliance immediately disavowed any knowledge of the incident, dismissing the claims as Combine propaganda.
Marcus was in no doubt. Propaganda hadn’t killed his family – missiles and plasma cannons had. And of course the Alliance was responsible – who else could it have been? The passenger manifest was clear enough – almost all were citizens of worlds within the Combine sphere of influence. Did they really expect him to believe that the Combine would destroy one of their own liners, slaughter their own people? It was insanity, pure and simple.
Years later, Marcus would wonder if he ever truly grieved the passing of his family. It had been so sudden, so abrupt and so very, very final. There were no funeral arrangements to be made, no remains to bury; his family had just… gone. It was as if they had departed for a long vacation on some distant world, but had chosen never to return. In the course of time a brief memorial service was held, attended mainly by friends and business acquaintances they’d made during their years on Tycho. The mourners were as shocked and saddened as Marcus, but there was something else, a sense of embarrassment, perhaps even guilt at the course of events. One or two shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot, perhaps wondering if the young man standing before them now considered them the enemy.
He didn’t. At least, not yet. For the most part, these were people with whom he’d shared his formative years and reached adult maturity. They were all decent people – genuine, respectable and hard working. Indeed, some of them would help him through the months ahead as he threw himself into his work, the only concrete thing left to him and the only connection to his past that had any meaning. He toyed with the idea of returning to Minden 3 but rejected the notion just as quickly. With the opening of a safe corridor, the crossing could be made without peril but to what would he be returning? His early childhood memories of Minden 3 were vague at best and his extended family just photos i
n an album. But yet, with the forming of the Alliance, Tycho was no longer a place he could think of as home. This… Alliance… had murdered his parents and sisters.
No official account of the destruction the hyper-liner was ever released. There were rumors, of course. Perhaps it was an attack by a rogue pilot with a score to settle. Perhaps the hyper-liner was mistakenly identified as a hostile. Perhaps it was officially sanctioned and subsequently covered up. Whatever the reason, it was a crime that Marcus could not, would not, forgive.
Long months later, he found himself standing alone besides the small commemorative plaque set in a wall in the memorial gardens near his home in Tycho City. Having recognized the need of a place to remember those lost in the depths of space, it was but one of many such gardens that had sprung up in recent times.
As was his habit, he traced the names of his parents and siblings with a forefinger, the simple act triggering a cascade of sounds and images which surged into his mind. Strangely, he felt closer to his family here than anywhere else. Whether the closeness was real or imagined, he couldn’t tell, but in it he was able to find a measure of solace. Not peace, exactly – he doubted he would ever be at peace again – but an inner strength, a much needed will to carry on. Some ventured that this was the place that his family’s spirits had chosen to rest. It was a comforting notion, but one Marcus struggled with. Making sense of the metaphysical had never been his strong point.
Tracing the final Rowe, he pondered his fellow mourners. Many were much like him; men and women with grim faces, each bearing their pain with as much dignity as they could muster, each a victim in their own way. He found them inspiring, but at the same time, sadly pathetic. The thought momentarily shamed him, but then he saw the fundamental difference between himself and the others who visited the gardens. There was a pattern to their actions. They arrived at the gates with heads held high, faces fixed like masks. They wandered the aisles slowly, pausing here and there until they found what they were looking for, the one significant name amongst the many. And then reality would bite; the mask would break and the tears would fall. Eventually they would bid a final farewell and turn away, backs no longer straight, bent perhaps by sorrow, or perhaps by the realization that a name carved in granite was a poor bargain for the life of a loved one.
For Marcus, the experience was different – almost the opposite. Whatever his mood when he entered through the ornamental gates – and there were days when it was bleak indeed – the experience of seeing their names in stone uplifted him in a way that he couldn’t explain. Perhaps the experience was indeed spiritual. Or was it just him taking another small step towards closure? And how would you know the difference?
As always, these were the contemplations that occupied his mind as he gazed at his family’s memorial tablet. So lost in thought was he that he barely noticed a slightly built, middle aged man walk up alongside.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the man said simply.
Dragged back into reality, Marcus looked into the stranger’s eyes. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
“No, I think not.” The man paused and looked slowly about. “I bring greetings from the Combined Worlds.”
Marcus looked at him curiously. “The Combined Worlds…” It was neither question nor statement but all he could think of to say.
“I’m here to assure you that you are not alone. There are others who share in your grief.”
“What are you, some kind of counselor?” said Marcus.
“No, I am not a counselor.” The man half smiled but then became immediately serious. “I cannot bring back your family, Mr. Rowe. They are gone, casualties of war.”
“Who killed them?”
“I can’t answer that. I cannot offer you solace, and neither can I offer you revenge. All I can offer you is a purpose to your life. Redemption, perhaps.”
Marcus again looked at the man curiously. He had no need of counseling. Purpose and redemption, on the other hand, were things he could use.
It soon became apparent that the mysterious stranger knew all there was to know about Marcus Rowe, his family and his work. It also became clear that he saw the Alliance as an implacable foe; an enemy that he would fight with all the tools at his disposal; in his case, the tools of espionage.
Within months, Marcus was providing a wealth of information regarding the movement of war material in and out of Tycho. As head of an import/export business, it was a simple enough matter. Contracts came his way and even the ones for which his bids were unsuccessful gave him hard data about cargos, dates and destinations. Most valuable of all was his contact book. He was within reach of a host of people, some of whom he knew to be at least sympathetic to the Combine cause, if not downright hostile towards the Alliance. That they lived within its borders meant that they were necessarily cautious but as the war dragged on, so – in some cases – did their resolve. Soon Marcus was handling informers of his own. Low level informers to be sure, but his intelligence was valuable enough to be noticed by one of the controllers back in Tarsus Center. Marcus was gradually allowed more responsibility, eventually rising to second in command of the cell that the slightly built, middle aged stranger had established at the beginning of the war. His new post required a code name. The name Jacob was chosen for no other reason than it was next on the list.
Meanwhile, Rowe & Son continued to prosper; the war all but guaranteed it. A further bonus was that Jacob’s reserved occupation precluded his being drafted into the Alliance military. More than once, Jacob reflected that receiving his call-up papers would have been the ultimate irony.
Over the years, Rowe & Son grew to the point that there occurred a gradual interference from both the government and the military. On reaching his mid thirties, Marcus decided to pull out, selling a 75% stake of Rowe & Son to the Armaments Board. After that, he travelled the length and breadth of Alliance space, ostensibly looking for new investments. His tours also included several clandestine trips across the border, where he received the very best training that the Combine espionage machine could offer. He was an able student, a quick learner and most important of all, a complete natural. He had the gift. He had the eye for a score and the nose for a fraud. He could charm, flatter, threaten or blackmail, all with consummate skill. He became a master of his craft.
On returning to Tycho, he set up Rowe Enterprises, a management consultancy specializing in the import-export business. His years of experience gave him the perfect cover, and Rowe Enterprises the perfect front for his more clandestine activities.
And now, Jacob was one of the longest serving agents working Alliance space. That in itself was a minor miracle; the life expectancy of an agent serving in hostile territory was not generally measured in decades. But survive he had. Partly by luck – he was sage enough to recognize that – but mostly by keeping to procedure and managing risks, which brought his thoughts back to Goss... and Powers… and Franklin. Three very different men who for different reasons would require careful monitoring and handling.
As an afterthought, he also wondered which one of the three might end up being responsible for his death.
* * *
In the adjacent room, Goss was also deep in thought. To his mind, Powers was an absolute godsend – precisely the kind of asset the Combine needed. A dozen more like him and the analysts back at Tarsus Center would be able to piece together a more than adequate picture of Alliance dispositions and intentions. Powers and people like him should be exploited to the full, not cosseted. Were there risks? Yes, of course there were. Every time Powers relayed information there was a chance that he could be compromised in some way. He might be observed by his peers or fall prey to some routine check. Alternatively, he might make some elementary mistake; let his guard down or perhaps allow something slip while under the influence of drink. Some informers had even been known to boast of their activities. Goss didn’t think Powers was quite that stupid but you could never tell. Statistically speaking, every asset had a shelf life, m
easured not so much in months or years, but in terms of the value or frequency of the intelligence delivered. The Combine needed the intelligence now. Better Powers be caught delivering a high volume of valuable value data in the short term than chicken feed over the long.
And thus Goss turned his thoughts towards Jacob, the ultimate survivor – the cell leader who had far exceeded the expected shelf life of any agent in enemy territory. In such a perilous occupation, how had he managed to achieve such longevity?
There could be only so many reasons. One cause might be a simple lack of endeavor. It wasn’t unknown for agents to arrive in enemy territory and simply hunker down and wait for their tour to end, avoiding anything that could compromise their position. Such operatives inevitably became conspicuous by their lack of results, a situation that the controllers at Tarsus Center would tolerate for only so long. In the course of time, the offending individual would be recalled and transferred to a position more suited to his or her abilities, most often to one of the ranger battalions, the shock troops of the Combine whose life expectancy on the battlefield was measured in minutes rather than days or weeks, and certainly not months or years.
Apart from the fact that Jacob was rather too old for such redeployment, he had – to his credit – been supplying high value data for years. That in its self raised further questions. Had Jacob been very, very able, or had he simply been very, very lucky. Unfortunately for Jacob, his very success had been enough to arouse the suspicions of his masters back home, for there was, of course, one other possible reason for his longevity – that he had long since made a pact with the enemy.
Before leaving for Tycho, Goss had been assigned two distinct and disparate missions. One was to assist the cell to the best of his ability, to aid in the handling of agents and, if possible, to develop contacts of his own. The other was to undertake a detailed evaluation of the leader himself; to assess his ability, his devotion to the cause and above all, his loyalty. The mere fact that Jacob’s loyalty had been questioned was quite enough for Goss. Tasked with finding evidence of his duplicity, Goss the achiever would quite naturally find it… whether it existed or not.
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