by Jay Allan
“Head back?” It was Stockton again. “How can we come all this way and go back with just one significant piece of old tech? We have to press on.” It was the brash pilot inside Stockton coming out, all bluster and bravado.
“And, what if we encounter more than an old, automated scanning device? What if we run into something like the planet killer, or the pulsar…and what if this time there’s someone else there, operating it?”
Barron’s words silenced the room. He’d put everyone’s biggest fear right out on the table.
“Do you really think that’s likely, sir?” Fritz asked.
“I don’t know if I’d say ‘likely,’ Fritzie, but I think it’s just become a fringe possibility we have to take a lot more seriously.”
“It’s your decision, of course, Admiral.” Atara Travis sounded uncharacteristically uncertain. Barron realized she didn’t know what she would do in his shoes. He found that unnerving. All the years they’d served together, the dangers they’d faced…and this was the first time he’d seen her paralyzed by indecision.
Barron had his own doubts as well, heavy ones. Concerns not only about what might happen to the fleet, but also what dangers he might provoke and where they might lead. He was never one to ignore problems and hope they would go away…but he’d never let fear rule his choices. His concerns were very real, but he’d already decided on a course of action.
“We’re moving ahead.” His tone was hard, a signal to all present that his decision was made…and final. He turned and looked toward Stockton. “Jake, I want to institute a number of new protocols, mostly extra security in fleet operations. First and foremost, I want a much heavier patrol rotation, including a substantial force of fighters well in advance of the fleet’s lead elements. I want four squadrons on point at all times, except during transits. And I want a spread of drones put through each point before any ships follow.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Stockton’s tone suggested he agreed fully. “I will see to it.”
Barron turned and looked over at Stockton. “I’d like you to do more than that, Jake. I want you to transfer over to Repulse, just temporarily. That way, you’ll be able to keep a close watch on things. You’ve got command authority over every fighter in the fleet, so feel free to rotate squadrons as you need. We don’t want to wear the pilots in the advance guard down to a nub.”
“Yes, Admiral…I agree completely. I will see to it.”
“I know you will, Jake.” He nodded. “Fritzie, I want you to keep your crews working on that artifact.” His eyes moved toward Travis. “Atara, have one of the escorts to take the device aboard.” He thought for a moment. “Leopard, I think. She’s one of the smallest. And, I want her crew reduced down to a skeletal staff. Anyone not absolutely necessary for safe operation will be transferred to other ships.”
“Yes, sir. I will see to it.”
Barron looked back at Fritz. “Fritzie, I want your people shuttled on and off that ship for duty shifts. We still don’t know for certain that the artifact is safe, and I’m not risking anyone who doesn’t absolutely have to be there.”
“Understood, sir.”
“And Fritzie…” Barron stared intently at his engineer. “That includes you. Do what you can to research the thing…and manage your people. But when you’re not doing that, I want you back on Dauntless.” He turned toward Stara Sinclair. “Stara, I want you to make sure we’ve got enough shuttles doing runs back and forth to move personnel back and forth. And I want all engineering personnel off Leopard twenty minutes before each transit.”
“Yes, Admiral. I’ll put together a regular schedule to ferry Captain Fritz and her people back and forth between Dauntless and Leopard. It would help if Leopard could hold position within five thousand kilometers of Dauntless. That should be far enough to protect from any…problem that might occur, and keeping the range down will simplify shuttle operations.”
“Very well.” Barron turned toward Travis. “See to that flight plan, Atara. I want Dauntless’s navigational AI running both ships.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it immediately.”
Barron stood up. “Okay, we all know what we’re doing, so let’s get back to our stations. The advance guard will transit in…” He looked over at the chronometer on the far wall. “…one hour, forty-three minutes.” He turned toward Stockton. “Jake, that should just give you time to get over to Repulse if you take your fighter. I’d like you to be ready to get those scouting patrols up and out as soon as we get through the point.”
“Yes, sir. Consider it done.”
“I’m sorry not to give you more time, but we will have send anything you want over after the fleet transits. Transmit a list of personal gear you need, and I’ll have one of the stewards collect it and shuttle it over right after the jump.”
“Thank you, sir.” Stockton nodded as he answered.
Barron turned toward Travis. Like everyone else in the room, she had followed his lead and stood up. “Atara, send a communique to Commodore Eaton. She is to launch a spread of drones immediately to explore the other side of the transit point. Her forces are to proceed on schedule without further orders, unless the drones discover something she deems to be of concern.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Okay then…let’s go see what the hell is out there.”
Chapter Fifteen
Hall of the People
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV
Union Year 219 (315 AC)
Villieneuve read the report, and the further he got, the wider the smile on his face became. Part of him still couldn’t believe the luck he’d had in his desperate grab for survival—and power. Ricard Lille’s successful assassination of the Presidium had played a huge role, but he also credited himself with executing every subsequent step almost flawlessly. Still, he was not delusional enough to lose sight of the fact that fortune had played an enormous role, especially in the early stages. He knew just how easily he could have ended up under the boots of the mob rather than leading it.
Luck or not, he was even more impressed with the job Ricard Lille had done with the workers’ councils. The first small revolutionary groups had sprung up on their own, but instead of crushing them, Villieneuve had seen an opportunity to use them to his advantage. He’d started that process himself, gaining control of most of the largest councils on Montmirail and the other close-in planets. But in just a few short weeks, Lille had put together hundreds of teams, and he’d dispatched agents to dozens of worlds, disguised as grassroots agitators and organizers to extend clandestine influence throughout the rest of the Union.
The cost had been high, at least in absolute terms, though many of the bribes to council leaders had come from the confiscated properties of former government members. The Union’s economy was still too prostrate for Villieneuve to liquidate any significant amount of such property at any reasonable price. Those assets were far better used to extend his control, to lure those who’d loudly proclaimed the ideals of the revolution to sell themselves and become his cronies. A massive manor house he couldn’t sell worked perfectly to entice a former revolutionary to corruption.
He was still stunned at how effective the whole campaign had been. To date, fewer than ten percent of the councils had resisted such infiltration, and the small number that had remained true to their stated ideals fell into the delicate hands of his trusted friend. Lille had accomplished every aspect of his mission, but it was in the handling of the most stubborn bodies that he had truly shined.
Death was Ricard Lille’s business, and as far as Villieneuve was concerned, his friend was without peers in his chosen profession. He could have killed recalcitrant council members in a hundred ways, most of which would have been dangerous, and might have risked some kind of backlash. But Lille had avoided such pitfalls, and, for the most part, he’d manipulated the proscribed members into killing each other.
It looked easy enough—on paper—though Villieneuve knew
it was far more difficult and delicate in practice. Lille and his teams had arranged for incriminating documents and other evidence, most of it faked, to fall into the hands of each target’s rivals. The denouncements had gone on for weeks now, as had the subsequent killings. Often, Lille had used one problem member to denounce another, after which the first whistleblower was cast in turn to the mobs, condemned by “evidence” no less manufactured than that which they had used to denounce their own enemies.
The mobs were still enraged, at least in the cities on most of the Union’s core worlds. Their fury was ready to be unleashed on anyone. It was always astonishing—and to Villieneuve reassuring—how little actual proof was required to turn people into wild throngs screaming for blood.
Lille had accomplished an amazing amount in just a few weeks. The assassin—and new head of the People’s Protectorate—was on Dannith now, ready to begin the second assignment Villieneuve had given him. That planet was in every way the center of illicit exploration and black market activity for old tech.
Villieneuve wished he could have kept his friend back in the Union to continue to assist him with his final efforts to secure control. But crushing resistance in the Union was only one task he needed to accomplish. The events of the war, as frustratingly unsuccessful as they’d been, had made one other thing absolutely clear to him. The possession of old tech would be the key to dominance in the future.
He’d long been aided by the Confederation’s foolish adherence to the treaties requiring nations to share any old tech items that came into their possession, regardless of where they had been discovered. Men like Van Striker and Gary Holsten had ignored such requirements, of course, at least when it had been vital to do so…and when they’d been able to get away with it. But the treaties had definitely hampered the Confederation’s exploitation of old tech, and they had done so for almost a century.
He was concerned about whether that advantage would continue, however. Certainly, the Confederation Senate was as ineffectual and politically fractured as ever. But it was Striker and Holsten, and others like them in the Confederation’s halls of power, that most concerned him. Not to mention Tyler Barron, and whatever his massive exploration fleet might find…hundreds of lightyears from the prying eyes of the Senate.
Confederation politicians were largely fools, far too worried about their petty bickering to look seriously to the future. But he couldn’t afford to assume that Holsten and Striker, and the others like them, would just sit back as he moved to gain an unbeatable advantage in old tech for the new Union.
Unless they’re preoccupied with something else.
Marieles…
Desiree Marieles was a gifted agent, one who combined unquestionable physical charms with a sharp incisive mind…and an absolute lack of hesitation to do whatever was necessary. Next to Ricard Lille, he imagined she was the least afflicted by conscience and regret of anyone he’d ever known.
She would be well on her way to Megara by now, assuming she managed to get through Confederation space undetected. It was dangerous enough for a Union agent to travel anywhere in the Confederation, but the capital world was a heavily-regulated place, with customs agents and law enforcement everywhere. Lille suspected that had as much to do with keeping out undesirables within the Confederation as it did guarding against foreign spies. Confed politicians prattled on endlessly about equality and egalitarianism, but they were as corrupt—and lived lives as luxurious as—any of their equivalents in the Union. Hypocrisy was an affliction that seemed to afflict all humanity with relentless intensity.
Despite his token worries, he was reasonably confident Marieles would make it to Megara. Her aliases were well-crafted, and the prep work had been completed to the highest standards. She would not only get there…she would cause trouble, he was sure of that. But her mission would be incredibly difficult to see to fruition.
He glanced down at the tablet sitting in the center of his desk. The screen was blank, save for a title in non-descript, white letters. Plan Black.
He’d written the document himself, and he’d shared it with no one, at least not in its entirely. It was a second effort to undermine the Confederation, to gain the dominance he’d sought, and failed to achieve, in the war. Discovering one or more dominant old tech artifacts was still the likeliest route to victory…and the vengeance he craved on those who had handed him his failures and defeats. But Plan Black was a backup, another route to total victory, to dominance over his hated enemies.
He didn’t expect complete success, not really, but even a partial attainment of the plan’s goals would be helpful. And, if Marieles somehow pulled the whole thing off, she’d go a long way toward erasing the defeat in the war…and moving the Union toward the uncontested dominance it had sought for a century.
* * *
Villieneuve sat quietly as the door opened and a tall man in a spotless naval uniform walked in. It had been a pleasant day so far, progress reports from both Marieles and Lille looking very good indeed. For the last hour he’d been with Admiral Turenne, discussing something that had been a painful thorn in his side for almost two years now.
He looked up at the new arrival. “Admiral Denisov, come in. Have a seat.” Villieneuve gestured toward one of the chairs facing his desk. It was old, hard metal, blemished by irregular oval-shaped rust stains along the back. All part of the image the Union’s leading Citizen wanted to portray.
“Thank you, sir…Citizen Villieneuve.” Denisov paused, noticing the man sitting in the second chair facing Villieneuve. “And, Admiral Turenne.” He was clearly surprised at the naval CO’s presence, and he snapped to attention and saluted.
“There is no need for such formalities here, Andrei. I’m sure Admiral Turenne would agree.”
“Of course, sir,” the other admiral said. Actually, Villieneuve was fairly certain Turenne did not agree, not at all. Turenne was the closest thing to a hero the Union had seen in the battle at the Bottleneck, and for all he was somewhat of a maverick, he’d shown that he expected a certain amount of respect from subordinates.
Villieneuve had almost ordered the officer executed for failing to stop Dauntless. That would have been a terrible injustice to the one officer who’d come closest to safeguarding victory in the Bottleneck, but Villieneuve had been blind with rage, and ready to lash out at anyone. Fortunately, his reason had won out in the end. Turenne had actually detected Dauntless, or at least he’d gathered enough data to raise his suspicions that something was out there.
So Villieneuve had satisfied himself by executing that fool Admiral Bourbonne instead. And rather than having Turenne shot, he’d promoted him to the navy’s top command. That had meant leapfrogging him over a legion of superior officers…many of whom complained loudly…and foolishly. Very few of those bypassed ultimately survived the revolutionary purges that followed.
Denisov walked across the room and pulled out the offered chair, sitting as he’d been instructed to do. Denisov was clearly nervous as well as uncomfortable, not only at being summoned to Villieneuve’s office, but also by the presence of his commanding officer. Villieneuve was amused by the admiral’s twitching, a natural effort to assume a comfortable seated position. It was something that did not seem possible on the old, battered chairs.
“I wanted to discuss a pending military operation with you, Admiral Denisov. Although we are at peace with the Confederation now, we have another matter, one which has gone on for far too long.” He stared across the desk at the admiral, noting the surprise and anticipation in the officer’s expression. He didn’t doubt for an instant Denisov knew what he was talking about, or that the admiral would fail to see that the mission he was about to receive was the prime assignment in the navy…and that success in carrying it out would create a career trajectory directly to the very highest command echelons.
That was seductive for any ambitious officer, but Denisov had only been a captain when the war ended, which made attaining such heights so soon particularly dizzying.
Villieneuve’s rage—and the need to keep feeding scapegoats to the mob—had ravaged the flag ranks badly since the fight at the Bottleneck. Denisov was one of a group of formerly junior commanders who’d exhibited a level of skill and ability beyond that of his peers, and Villieneuve had responded by giving him a huge promotion, and putting him in charge of his own task force.
“Yes, sir…Citizen. I will be honored to accept any mission you give me.”
“I think we all know we’re talking about Barroux, Admiral.”
“I suspected, sir.”
“As you are aware, the traitors on Barroux have defeated two attempts to liberate the planet. Until now, we have been unable to assemble a force sufficient to overcome the planet’s defenses and reestablish control. I believe we are now capable of doing just that.”
Denisov was silent for a moment, seemingly uncertain if Villieneuve was going to continue. But then, after a quick glance at Turenne, he said, “The problem on Barroux has certainly gone on for far too long, sir. I couldn’t agree more on the urgency of taking action as quickly as possible.”
“I would like you to lead the assault force. Admiral Turenne had planned to do it himself, but I’m afraid he simply cannot be spared from the fleet’s rebuilding efforts. We have a long way to go before we recover our prewar strength.”
“I understand completely…and, I am honored to be given the chance to pacify Barroux at last.” Denisov paused. “May I ask what forces will be available for the operation?”
“Admiral Turenne will go over all of that with you in detail in a few minutes. I just wanted to have a few words with you first. I want to be certain that you do not underestimate the Barroux forces. They may be vile traitors, but that doesn’t mean they can’t fight. Overconfidence has already caused two disastrous reconquest attempts. I do not want to see a third.”