Ep.#7 - Who Takes No Risk (The Frontiers Saga - Part 2: Rogue Castes)

by Ryk Brown

  “Then their intel isn’t inside the Ranni plant,” Nathan surmised.

  “That would be my guess, yes.”

  “How many units?”

  “Enough to outfit another twenty Gunyoki fighters,” Jessica replied.

  “That’ll make twenty Gunyoki pilots happy,” Nathan commented. “They were a bit frustrated after trying to fight those octo-fighters. The damn things jump about every ten seconds. What about the race platform?”

  “A hangar bay is out of service, and the observation deck is opened to space but other than that, not much. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t their primary target. I think they were just trying to split our defenses.”

  “And it almost worked,” Nathan agreed.

  “Almost doesn’t count.” Jessica changed her position, leaning forward, her forearms resting on her knees as she looked down at the deck.

  Nathan recognized her body language. “What is it?”

  “We got some sig-int less than an hour ago,” she explained. “From one of our stealth recon drones. It’s about the Corinari.”

  “The Corinari? I thought they had disbanded years ago?”

  “Okay, the ex-Corinari,” Jessica admitted. “They’ve been rounded up by the Dusahn. Apparently, they had all gone into hiding after the Dusahn began capturing every Corinairan who had ever served in any military organization, Corinairan, Takaran, even in the Alliance. Some of them had even formed a loose resistance of sorts. The Dusahn have rounded them all up, or at least most of them. The only intel we have to go on are the news reports, and for all we know, they’re all propaganda.”

  “What are they going to do with them?”

  “The Dusahn assimilate manpower into their forces,” Jessica told him. “They’re going to give them a choice. Serve the Dusahn, or spend the rest of their lives at hard, and likely dangerous, labor.”

  “Slave soldiers or slave laborers,” Nathan sighed. “Nice choice.”

  “You know damn well not a single Corinari will choose to serve the Dusahn,” Jessica said.

  “I know.”

  “We have to find a way to rescue them, Nathan.”

  “I know.”

  “So, how are we going to do it?”

  “You’re the tactical officer and a Ghatazhak,” Nathan reminded her. “Don’t you have any ideas?”

  “Yup, but you’re not going to like it,” Jessica warned.

  “Try me,” Nathan insisted.

  Jessica rose from the couch. “After I run it past Telles,” she insisted. “I suspect he’ll suggest a few changes.”

  * * *

  After being interrogated several times, and being held for hours at the Scott estate, Krispin and the rest of the catering staff were released but warned to remain in the area for the next few days. Krispin was surprised that no one had asked him about his time on the third floor. Especially considering that two guards had been killed, and the guards who Krispin had delivered food to had been found unconscious. The only thing Krispin could figure was that someone—most likely the operative who had given him the assignment to deliver the food—had somehow removed Krispin’s alias from the movement logs.

  One thing Krispin was sure of, eventually, they would figure things out. And when they did, they would come for him. He had no intention of waiting for them to do so.

  Once Krispin arrived at his hotel room, he immediately changed clothes and IDs, and then left, taking the bus to the train station, and the train to the next city over. Once there, he took several buses to the far side of that town before renting a vehicle to drive to, yet, another city.

  Twelve hours, four different IDs, and more than a dozen checkpoints later, Krispin had made it all the way to Seattle. His only hope was to make it onto a flight to a remote part of the world, someplace where the local government was still stable enough to resist Admiral Galiardi’s imposition of global martial law.

  * * *

  “You will stand!” the guard yelled to the occupants of the cell where Jonas Prechitt was being held.

  Jonas and the five other prisoners stood as instructed. Michael watched from his cell, knowing they would be next. One of the guards opened the cell door, and two more guards stepped inside, followed by a Dusahn officer.

  “The choice is simple,” the officer said, obviously not wanting to waste any more time than necessary on a task he felt beneath him. “Serve the Dusahn, and you will live meaningful and productive lives. Refuse, and you will spend the remainder of your days at hard labor, in deplorable conditions.”

  The prisoners stood at attention, as best their tired, beaten bodies would allow, staring straight ahead.

  The Dusahn officer walked the length of the line of men, stopping at the end, opposite from Jonas. He looked at the last man in line. “What say you?”

  “I speak for these men,” Jonas stated confidently from the other end of the line.

  The Dusahn officer turned back toward Jonas, tilting his head in curiosity. After stepping back, he scanned the line of men. “Is this true?”

  “CORINARI!” Jonas barked sharply.

  “HUP! HUP! HUP!” the line of men replied proudly and in unison.

  “As you wish,” the officer agreed. He turned and walked over to Jonas, taking a moment to study his face. “So, Mister Prechitt, how say you?”

  “That’s Major Prechitt,” Jonas corrected.

  The officer smiled, amused by the man’s pride. “Do not test me, Major,” the officer warned. “I will ask one last time,” he said, his voice seething. “How…say…you?”

  “The Corinari serve the people of Corinair and no other.” Jonas shifted his gaze to look directly into the Dusahn officer’s eyes. “On behalf of myself and my men, we respectfully decline your offer to serve the Dusahn Empire.”

  “Too bad,” the officer replied calmly. “You would have made fine additions. Men like you are hard to come by.” The officer walked to the cell door, then turned back around to address the six prisoners one last time. “Ironically, you will serve the empire, regardless of your decision. I do, however, respect your decision to stand by your principals. You would be surprised how few we have conquered who have been willing to do the same.” The Dusahn officer turned and walked out of the cell, barking orders in his native language as he headed for the next one.

  The guards immediately herded Jonas and his men out of the cell and down the corridor, presumably to meet their fate as slave laborers.

  “Remember what I said,” Michael whispered to Birk and Cuddy as the guards came to their cell door.

  “On your feet!” the guard ordered as he unlocked their cell door.

  Michael, Birk, Cuddy, and the other three prisoners in the cell rose to their feet, forming a line just as Jonas and his men had done. Michael moved casually away from Birk and Cuddy, taking his place at the end of the line. They, too, stood at attention, as best their weary bodies would allow.

  Two guards entered the cell, taking up positions at the front corners, their weapons ready. The Dusahn officer followed a moment later, entering the cell and coming to stand a meter before the door. “The choice is simple,” the officer said as before. “Serve the Dusahn, and you will live meaningful and productive lives. Refuse, and you will spend the remainder of your miserable existence at hard labor, in conditions unbefitting a snarda beast.” The officer walked the line, just as before, inspecting the group of men assembled before him, coming to a stop at the end of the line in front of Michael. “Michael Willard,” the officer said, disdain in his voice. “This offer does not extend to you. This offer is for men, not mutineers.”

  “It matters not,” Michael replied proudly. “I may not be Corinari, but I, too, refuse to serve your pathetic little empire.”

  “You are not worthy of the Corinari,” the officer s
aid, stepping to the left, in front of the next man. Without even looking at Michael, in one smooth motion, the officer pulled his sidearm, placed it against Michael’s right cheek, and fired.

  Cuddy gasped, and Birk turned away as Michael fell to the ground, gasping for breath through the gaping hole in his face.

  “How say you?” the officer asked the next man in line.

  “I respectfully decline to serve the Dusahn Empire,” the man stated proudly.

  The officer said nothing to the second man, moving to the next.

  Cuddy tried not to look at Michael’s lifeless body as blood pooled around his face and neck. By now, Michael’s breathing was almost nonexistent, and his gaze had become completely vacant, staring at someplace only he could see.

  Birk had his eyes closed, afraid to open them as the officer moved down the line, accepting the polite refusals from each man.

  The officer finally reached Cuddy, noticing the effect Michael’s now dead body was having on the young man. “He was a friend of yours?”

  “Sort of,” Cuddy admitted. “Not really, I guess.”

  “You are not Corinari,” the officer surmised.

  Cuddy’s expression suddenly changed, becoming full of rage. “No, I’m not,” he replied, his anger growing. “But I too…”

  “No!” Birk yelled interrupting his friend. “Don’t do it, Cuddy!” Birk looked at the officer. “It’s all my fault! The guns fell into our yard! It was my idea to sell them! I just wanted some extra money! We aren’t Corinari. We’re just a couple of college students. We were scared, and we agreed to join the resistance because we were afraid they were going to kill us! I’ll serve the Dusahn!”

  “Birk, no!” Cuddy argued.

  “Shut up, Cuddy!” Birk insisted. “And so will he! We don’t want to die! We’ll serve you, I swear it!”

  The officer studied Birk for a moment, then Cuddy. “Neither of you will make good soldiers,” he decided. “However, there are many roles in which you can serve.” The officer smiled. “Cook’s assistant, laundry, housekeeping.” He looked at Cuddy. “How say you?”

  “Please,” Birk whispered to his friend.

  Cuddy looked at Birk, then back at the Dusahn officer before him. “I will serve the empire,” he finally said begrudgingly.

  The officer smiled and then turned to look at Birk. “Your friend is a far braver man than you, I’m afraid.” The officer stepped over in front of Birk. “I’m pretty sure I already know your answer, however, protocol requires that I ask. So, how say you?”

  “I choose to serve the empire,” Birk sobbed, embarrassed by his own weakness.

  The guard turned sharply around, barking more orders in his native tongue as he walked out of the cell, turning to go to the next.

  The guards herded the three men who had refused service toward the exit. The last man looked at Birk and Cuddy as he left, nodding respectfully as he departed.

  A moment later, two more guards stepped in to herd Birk and Cuddy out, as well, taking them down a different corridor than the others, presumably, to their new lives as members of the Dusahn Empire.

  Neither of them looked back at Michael’s dead body. They couldn’t.

  * * *

  “We are now getting reports from multiple sources, all of which are confirming, that the assassination attempts on leaders of Alliance worlds are believed to be a coordinated attempt by the Jung Empire to destabilize the Alliance and its military forces, possibly as the first step in a coordinated attack on not only the Earth but all of the Sol-Pentaurus Alliance. NAU investigators have confirmed that President Scott and his family were killed by an explosive device that was set by a Jung sleeper agent by the name of Sara Jassa, who died in the blast. Authorities are still searching for Miss Jassa’s accomplice, Krispin Bornet, who somehow managed to get hired on, at the last moment, as a server for the event at the late president’s estate. Mister Bornet is an ex-marine with special operations training and is considered armed and dangerous. Anyone spotting Mister Bornet is strongly advised to stay clear of him, and report his location to authorities as quickly as possible.”

  Krispin stood in the Sydney Airport, staring at the view screen in disbelief, his heart sinking at the news of the death of his beloved Sara. Now it was all beginning to make sense. Both of them had been played by Galiardi, if, in fact, that was who had hired him in the first place.

  But it had to be Galiardi, Krispin thought. He had the most to gain from the death of President Scott, and he would be the only one with the power and reach to coordinate similar assassinations on other Alliance worlds.

  Krispin’s mind was reeling. He looked around, suddenly feeling as if every person in the terminal was staring at him. He felt his pulse racing, his breath quickening. He had to control himself; he had to think.

  He quickly headed to the exit, making his way to the public transit station outside. Within minutes, he was on a train headed for the city.

  Krispin moved to the back of the train car, taking a seat and pulling his cap down over his face, pretending to be taking a nap. He quickly took inventory of his situation. The picture of him on the news was recent but not too recent. He had two-days growth on his face and had already changed his hair color from blond to black. It was a start, but it would not be enough. If he could lay low somewhere for a week or two, his facial hair would thicken, offering him additional concealment.

  Still, it would not be enough. If he remained on Earth, he would eventually be apprehended. If Admiral Galiardi was making a play for the control of the Earth and the entire Alliance, he could not afford any loose ends. Krispin would not be arrested, he would be killed. Of that, he was certain.

  Unfortunately, Krispin had very little money on him, definitely not enough to keep him fed and clothed for more than a few days. He needed help…help from someone he could trust. But, very few people met that criteria. In fact, he could think of only one person who even came close, and he had not spoken to her in several years.

  * * *

  Admiral Galiardi entered the Alliance Fleet Command press room, moving quickly to the podium at the front of the room. There were no pleasantries, no greetings, no friendly exchanges with familiar reporters waiting to hear what the admiral had to say. Michael Galiardi was there on business. Deadly serious business.

  “There will be no questions,” the admiral began. “I am here to make a statement, only.” The admiral took a pause, reviewing his notes on the data pad before him. “Two days ago, sleeper agents of the Jung Empire executed a carefully planned, well-coordinated attack, directly against the leaders of the twelve most powerful worlds within the Sol Alliance. I am saddened to report that ten of those assassinations were successful, including that of our own president, Dayton Scott. The intricacies of this plan would require years, if not decades, of preparation. The logistics of interstellar communication alone tells us that these plans have been in motion since at least as far back as the cease-fire agreement between the Jung Empire and the Sol Alliance. Such actions constitute a violation of the cease-fire agreement, meaning that a state of war now exists between us. As you are all aware, since returning to command, I have insisted the Jung could not be trusted and that someday we would have to face them again. I take no satisfaction in being right in this instance. However, I do take comfort in the knowledge that this time, we are prepared to defeat our enemy, with relatively few losses in Alliance lives. Unfortunately, a declaration of war requires a vote of the Alliance Council, which is now impossible, due to the attack by the Jung Empire. This was undoubtedly their goal all along, to cripple our government, to create panic and chaos among our peoples, to sow discord within our political parties and institutions…all so we would fail to take action when action is the only thing that can save us.”

  The admiral took a breath, glancing down at his notes again, be
fore continuing. He paused, as if he suddenly did not want to say what was on his data pad. He looked at the faces of the press, every pair of eyes locked on him, hanging on his every word. He leaned on one arm just enough to appear a bit informal, then took a deep breath and continued. “When I took my oath of service—both times—I swore to do everything within my power to protect and serve the people of Earth and of all those worlds aligned with her. It is an oath that I, and every man and woman under my command, take seriously. Being a leader sometimes means you have to make terrible decisions. It sometimes means you have to break the very rules you have sworn to uphold, in order to protect those entrusted to you. All too often, it means having to send brave men and women to their deaths, and in too great of numbers. The worst thing a leader can do is to fail to act. Therefore, I am taking action, and I am doing what I, as commander of all Alliance forces, believe is necessary to protect all the people of the Alliance.”

  Admiral Galiardi squared up to the cameras at the back of the room, again taking a more official posture. “In the wake of the assassinations of ten world leaders, and the imminent threat of attack by the Jung Empire, I am declaring interstellar martial law throughout all Alliance space. Furthermore, I am assuming control of all Alliance worlds that have suffered a loss of leadership, until such time as those worlds can conduct lawful elections to replace them. In addition, at this very moment, a first-strike against every Jung battle platform whose location is currently known to us is being carried out. I intend to continue these strikes until such time as the Jung Empire’s ability to wage war against the Sol Alliance, or any other world, is no more. As of this moment, the Sol Alliance is at war with the Jung Empire. It is a war that we shall win, and we shall do so most decidedly. That is all.”

  Admiral Galiardi kept his promise and left the podium without answering any of the questions being shouted at him as he departed the press room.