Invasion (Blood on the Stars Book 9)

by Jay Allan

  “Yes, sir…understood.” Atara didn’t sound annoyed, though he suspected she was, in a calm sort of way. She had just cause to expect him to realize she didn’t need to be told anything twice, much less three times, but she also knew him well enough to understand the pressure he’d been under.

  Most of Whitten’s fleet had defected to Barron’s side, and the few ships that had refused to do so had fled, no doubt back to Megara ahead of his now seemingly irresistible force. Barron’s course was the most direct one possible, taking the fleet right through the Iron Belt and into the Core, from one densely populated—and heavily defended—system to the next.

  Argolith was one of the oldest Iron Belt worlds, and, unlike some of its brethren planets in recent years, it was as deeply devoted to a production-based system as ever. Some of the inner Iron Belt systems had become more heavily based on information type economies, and many of their old factories and shipyards had shut down, replaced by newer ones on hungrier, farther out planets. But Argolith’s vast factories still operated at nearly one hundred percent capacity, and its shipyards held their place among the very best in the Confederation.

  The system was heavily defended as well, with extensive fortresses and a large fleet of armed patrol ships. Nothing that could defeat Barron’s fleet, but the last thing he needed was to fight against more of his own people in each system he passed through. And, since he had no idea what propaganda his adversaries had spread, and how far the lies had traveled, he’d decided to make sure the authorities—and the masses as well—knew that his forces were only passing through. That, if left unmolested, they would continue on and bring the problems on Megara to a speedy conclusion.

  He had a date with someone. Who, he didn’t know, but he suspected he would find a not inconsiderable number of Senators on the list of those involved. He truly didn’t know what he would do about that, how far he was willing to go. The guilty had to be removed, of course, if only to ensure that the matter, once settled, remained that way. But was he prepared to order Marines into the Senate Compound to drag out screaming legislators? And, if he did, what would that mean for the Confederation’s republican government? He’d come to suspect that his grandfather had interfered in politics far more than he’d ever realized, and, apparently with considerable force as well. Yet he’d left the Confederation no less democratic than he’d found it. Barron had wondered—during almost every waking hour, which, in the past weeks, had been almost every hour—if he would be able to match his grandfather’s skill, the light touch that had swept away the worst of the malfeasants and let him walk away to be regarded not as a rebel or tyrant, but as a loyal Confederation officer.

  That was likely to be a more difficult course to navigate since he was getting angrier with each passing hour. At first, he’d felt victimized, but now he realized, whoever was responsible had jeopardized the entire Confederation—billions of innocent people, most of whom were blissfully ignorant of whatever plot was going on in the capital. He’d tried to restrain his anger, remain cool and thoughtful about the situation. But, there was no ignoring the cold fact that he wanted blood.

  Barron doubted he had his grandfather’s skill, the delicate touch required to prune the tangled and corrupt mass of the government. He suspected he could either clear his name and leave those responsible in place and largely unpunished—something that seemed more and more unacceptable as the days passed by—or he could cut through the ranks of the politicians with a bloody blade. He hated the thought of behaving like a conqueror, of imposing a military dictatorship, however short-lived it might be, but in the end the Hegemony might well make the decision for him. He had to unite the Confederation to face the enemy, and that meant doing whatever it took.

  Whatever it took.

  He simply would not allow the Confederation to fall without a fight, and if he had to be a rebel, a tyrant…a butcher…to see that the Hegemony got that fight, then that was what he would do.

  He leaned back and sighed, trying to take his mind away from such grim prospects, at least for a moment. Cutting through the Iron Belt was certainly saving time over a more roundabout route. The fleet had four more transits to Megara. Assuming he could avoid any entanglements with local authorities—or any other forces the Senate or the conspirators might send to stop him—his fleet would be at the capital in less than two weeks.

  Two weeks to the final showdown.

  Two weeks until he knew exactly what he would have to do.

  One thing was certain. Whoever was behind the situation in the capital would almost certainly be warned…the stalwarts who’d fled after the rest of the fleet switched sides ensured that. If the perpetrators fully controlled Megara’s defense grid, Barron and his people would face one hell of a problem. Ideally, he would blockade the planet as he tried to find a way to undermine those causing the unrest. But there wasn’t time for that…and from the latest dispatches from Admiral Winters, even less than he might have hoped. The Confederation forces had to be united and ready to face the Hegemony—immediately—even if that meant attacking Megara’s defenses. That would mean heavy casualties for both his fleet and those manning the fortresses…and a considerable risk of civilian losses on the ground as well.

  If it came to that, he knew one thing.

  He would make whoever was responsible pay.

  * * *

  “I am pleased and honored that you have made the time to join me here for dinner, Admiral Barron. My ship is your ship…as the Palatian fleet is yours, with every warrior on it. We will fight together, my friend, against any enemies the universe puts in our way. I have yet to see any Hegemony vessels firsthand, of course, but I look forward to the honor of engaging—and defeating—such an invader. We will send them back where they came from with a new understanding of the mettle of those who dwell on the Rim.”

  Barron nodded, and followed Vian Tulus’s lead in raising his glass. He was genuinely fond of Tulus, and the Imperator had been a flawlessly loyal friend, but, for all his time spent among the Palatians, Barron sometimes had trouble adapting to their ways and their outlook. He saw the coming of the Hegemony as a disaster of epic proportions, a calamity that could very well destroy both the Confederation and the Alliance. Tulus was one of the most forward thinking of his people, a man who had progressed far from the hidebound traditions and honor-driven thought of the Palatians…yet, even he couldn’t escape the call of the warrior. He viewed a new enemy not as a deadly threat to his people and their culture, but as a new opportunity for glory.

  Barron suspected his friend did understand the extent of the danger they were up against. But, old customs died hard.

  “No doubt we will have a considerable fight on our hands, my friend. If I must face such a struggle, my gratitude for having you at my side knows no bounds.” It was as close to a Palatian style toast as he could manage, and while he suspected Tulus was well aware of his reservations, the Imperator smiled, and took the words as Barron had intended.

  “Please eat, my friend. Whether we fight for honor or survival, we must look to our strength.” Tulus gestured as a line of servants came into the room and set down half a dozen large trays. Barron nodded, and he reached out and took a large semi-sweet roll, a confection the Palatians called Nubus. He’d shuttled over to the Alliance flagship at Tulus’s invitation, and he knew Palatian custom would require him to eat heartily…but he was starting slowly. He’d spent much time on Palatian ships, eaten vast quantities of their food, but he’d always found it a bit too rich in heavy game meats. It was a concession to the hunting ideals of the warrior race, but a bit much for Barron’s taste buds and stomach.

  “Come, my friend…eat more than a scrap of sweetbread. Try the Croca…my chef prepares it better than any in all the Rim.”

  Barron nodded, wondering how much there was for a chef to do on a piece of meat that looked very close to raw to him. Still, he reached out and took a piece—the smallest he could see on the tray—and took a bite. It wasn’t as bad as it
looked—which had always been his blanket assessment of Palatian cuisine—but he’d have preferred something a bit less…adventurous.

  Tulus smiled. Barron wasn’t sure if the Imperator was pleased he’d taken some of what the Palatian considered “proper” food, or if the entire spectacle was just one friend amusing himself at the expense of another. Understanding Palatians as he’d come to, he suspected he would never know. The warrior race’s version of humor was particularly difficult to grasp, at least beyond the most basic interpretations.

  “It is quite good, Vian, but need I remind you, I have dined on Croca killed by your own hand. No preparation, no spices or marinades can match the bounty of a brother’s hunt, roasted simply over a fire.”

  Tulus stared back at Barron for a few seconds, and then he burst out into hearty laughter. “Ah, my friend, we must find more time for such pursuits. I would relish a long hunt. We could live off the land, test ourselves in the wild.” Tulus paused, and his face darkened. Barron knew the cause for his friend’s sadness. His vision, one of simple joys and camaraderie, could never be, at least not for a very long time. His responsibilities were too vast, and both of them faced a long and desperate war before any manner of recreation would be possible.

  “Tyler, my brother…I am pleased to have your company, as I would be any time fortune allows, but I asked you here for a reason.”

  Barron wasn’t surprised. Tulus was as no-nonsense as he himself was, and he’d suspected the Imperator wouldn’t have brought him all the way to the Alliance flagship to share Croca, however well-prepared. “You wish to warn me, to make sure I am…ready…to do what must be done when we reach Megara.” Barron’s voice was unemotional, almost a monotone. He knew why Tulus had asked him to come, and he understood. The Imperator wondered if he had the strength to attack the Confederation capital, to send his forces against the Senate if need be.

  Barron took no offense. He wasn’t sure he had the strength either.

  “It is not your strength that I doubt, Tyler. There are few warriors on the Rim who could match your will and power. My people are sometimes driven by honor to make foolish choices, and I submit yours are not immune to such influences. That even you, yourself, are not.”

  The words hit Barron, and for an instant he felt defensive. But his resentment quickly faded, and he considered what Tulus had said, as the Palatian continued. “My friend, honor can take many forms. My people follow the code of the warrior, but your own comrades are no less bound to constructs of this sort. You serve a political body you know to be corrupt. Do you march on the Senate, arrest those who have breached their oaths? You would tell me you are committed to the rule of law, that you are bound to follow the orders of the Senate…yet what is a law but words written out, and how much force does it carry when it is corrupt from the start? Is there not some point at which you would disobey? Of course, there is. So, where lies this line, my friend? Somewhere between your devotion to the laws, dictates—whims?—of your governing body, and the place where you take a stand and say, ‘No more…I can go no farther, obey no immoral law?’ Is this not honor of its own sort, a dedication to ideals beyond those in accordance with governmental mandates? Would your ideals, for example, not require you to refuse to bombard an innocent world, if such was ordered? What is this, if not honor? Yet, you allow yourself to wallow in torment at the prospect of taking decisive action against those who have undermined your government. Is it honorable to give deference to the corrupt at the cost of readying your people to face a new enemy, to preserve their freedom? My people understand the bitterness of slavery, Tyler. There are still those living among us who remember the outworld occupiers, the sting of subservience. It is such that drives us, imposes upon us the harsh dictates of warrior honor and ideals. Are you less than we are, Tyler, my friend? Are you less than I believe you are? I do not believe so.”

  The Imperator paused, and Barron looked back at his friend, feeling a momentary flash of uncertainty, before it passed, and he understood. Tulus was trying to provoke him, to shake him from the hesitation he felt, the reluctance to do what had to be done, even as he went through the motions.

  He had to admit to himself, he just wasn’t sure what he would do when the fleet arrived at Megara. Would he open fire on the fortresses? Bombard surface targets? Would he send his Marines down to arrest the members of the Senate? What if they met resistance? Would he start a war on the surface of the Confederation’s capital to prepare for a war against an outside invader?

  He didn’t know what he would do, could do…but he was pretty sure Tulus would offer his very best to firm up his resolve.

  And he was grateful for it. He needed all the help he could get. He wished with all his heart he could have spoken with his grandfather, even for a few minutes. But the elder Barron had been gone for many years, and even Tyler’s memories had faded to fuzzy shadow images.

  What he did now, he would have to do himself…but he would have to live with the consequences.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Outer Ring, Western District

  Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

  Year 317 AC

  Damn!

  Andi Lafarge cursed herself as she held the rifle in front of her, trying to maintain her concentration long enough to line up another shot. But her inner sense was alive now, the instinct that had done so much to keep her alive for so many years. Against almost any target, she might have stayed in place, tried one more time for a killing shot. But Ricard Lille was no ordinary opponent, and the slightest mistake was all it would take to end up the victim instead of the assassin.

  She ducked down, trying vainly to suppress the rage she felt for missing the shot. It had been an excellent opportunity, and she doubted she’d have another as good, especially not now that Lille knew someone was after him.

  Someone…he’ll figure it is me. He knows I was here, that I helped to rescue Tyler and Gary.

  Lille was a mastermind at hunting human beings. She’d come to Megara to track and kill the man, but she knew now that she was as much a target on the run now as a killer stalking a victim. Her mission was no longer an assassination, it was a duel.

  One with the deadliest of adversaries.

  She slid down an exposed pipe along the back of the building. She would do a post mortem later, compile a list of mistakes she’d made, reasons that shot hadn’t blown Lille’s head into a red mist…but for now, she had to get out. She wouldn’t shy away from the contest with the man who had tormented her, broken her, but first she had to equalize the odds. Striking at Lille outside the Sector Nine safe house had made sense when she’d had the element of surprise. Now, she was close to one of her enemy’s centers of power. Lille would have a dozen agents out combing the streets for her, and she had to be gone before they found her perch.

  She raced through the back alleys, realizing as she did that she’d been careless. She should have memorized the geography, known the layout of every street and pathway. In her older days, she would have had all the information she needed, and a good deal more. But she still wasn’t herself. She’d lost part of what she’d been in that interrogation room, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever get it back.

  Maybe…if I can kill the bastard.

  Maybe.

  She wasn’t sure what effect killing Lille would have on her mental state, but she didn’t need to know. She wasn’t going after the agent to soothe her psyche or to restore her mindset to something like it had been before. She was going to kill him because she had to, because there was no other choice she could live with. One of them had to die.

  She turned and ducked into the rear door of what appeared to be an abandoned building. Her focus had slammed into place, and she put thoughts of Lille out of her mind. First, she had to escape, to get away from the agents she was sure he’d sent after her.

  Then she could come back, find him again.

  And finish the job.

  * * *

  Gary Holsten ducked down
as the scene on the street below turned into utter chaos. He’d heard a shot, or at least he thought he had, but it had taken a few seconds before his eyes zeroed in on what had happened. Ricard Lille had been standing in the street, and then, in an instant, the agent he’d been speaking to was dead, and Lille had disappeared from view.

  Holsten’s mind was usually sharp and quick to deduce anything he saw. But it took a few seconds for him to realize he’d just watched someone try to assassinate Ricard Lille.

  He’d been stunned, not that someone wanted the Sector Nine assassin dead—he suspected anyone sane who knew Lille wanted the psychopath killed—but that someone on Megara had tried.

  Even more, that Lille had been careless enough in his cover to allow someone to track him. Holsten had found Lille too, when he’d been trying to rescue Andi on Dannith, but the effort had taken almost every resource he’d been able to muster…and he’d had to stake out the suspected safe house for two days before Lille had appeared.

  Though on some level he applauded anyone taking the effort to rid the universe of Ricard Lille, Holsten wasn’t there to kill the enemy assassin…at least not yet. He was trying to find Van Striker, and he’d eliminated every possibility on where the admiral could have gone. He had no direct evidence pointing to Lille, but by the sheerest of luck Ethan Zacker had a report on a possible sighting of the Sector Nine killer just a week before. It hadn’t been as simple as putting two and two together, but the combination of Striker’s disappearance and Lille’s reported presence was enough to justify keeping a watch on every known and suspected Sector Nine hideout in the Confederation’s capital.