by Jay Allan
That would be a shocking moment for the arrogant, but fundamentally gutless, Senator, and it was one she looked forward to with great anticipation. She imagined the instant when Ferrell realized he faced personal ruin no matter what he did, that he might as well take down the hated Holsten, despite whatever threats the spymaster sent his way. That should give the pompous ass something to think about…other than staring at my ass.
“Desiree, are you, perhaps, free this evening? I can arrange a quiet little dinner at my villa. We can review this material together, and perhaps…”
“I’m so sorry, Senator. You know I’d love to have dinner with you, but I’m afraid I have another appointment. Work, sadly. It never seems to stop.” She paused, forcing herself to smile coyly at the Senator. “This is pure work, I’m afraid…not the delightful combination of labor and enjoyable time together we share.”
“Soon then, Desiree. Your work has taken too much of your time…we must find some time for…other pursuits.”
“I will count the moments.” She maintained the grin, surprising herself with just how much energy it took. Then, she said, “Sadly, I must go now. But, please…review what I have just given you. Gary Holsten has run rampant for far too long, ignoring the laws of the Confederation. It is a natural disgrace.”
“One we will end, my dear Desiree…thanks to your help.”
“You are too kind, Senator. I will see you soon.” She nodded gently, and then she turned and walked away, hoping he wasn’t noticing her pace quickening as she got away from him.
* * *
“I am told we have at last gained a controlling interest in the stock. A very well-executed effort, Gustav. The annual meeting is in four days…and at that time, you will announce your holdings, and elect a new board of directors, one entirely controlled by us.” Marieles looked across the room at Gustav Shepard. That wasn’t his real name, of course, any more than his position as a maverick investment manager representing offworld interests was genuine. But he looked the part of an upper class Megaran, despite the fact that he’d come from nothing, the streets of one of the Union’s most backward and impoverished fringe worlds.
Shepard had been on Megara far longer than Marieles, through the entire war, in fact. His assignment then had been to spy on Confederation industrial interests and get as much data back to Montmirail as possible. His cover was very deep, so much so, that Marieles had wondered if the agent might have ‘gone native,’ and become too attached to his privileged position in the Confederation his cover afforded him. From all she’d been able to discern from the files, he’d even exhibited somewhat of an actual talent for investing, and he’d taken on a fairly long list of real investors to supplement the initial funds that had come from Sector Nine and its various controlled entities. But, Shepard had done everything she’d told him to do since she’d arrived, and he’d even passed the test twice when she’d laid traps to try and catch him if he was betraying her.
“Thank you. It was a significant project, certainly the largest investment I have made since I arrived here. It has taken all the funds under my control, supplemented by additional resources you have provided…but we were finally able to track down a few last blocks of stock. We now control 50.32% of the company.”
Marieles smiled, an expression far more genuine than those she’d managed for Ferrell’s consumption. The company she now controlled, through Shepard and an impenetrable array of intertwined and dummy entities, wasn’t just some profitable Confederation enterprise. It was a media network, the second largest on Megara, and one with tentacles extending throughout the Confederation. She’d observed its operation, even as her operatives had worked to gain control. It was a corrupt enterprise, as all such were, but its prejudices and biases had always been variable and randomized, driven more by the beliefs and vanities of those in positions of power in its managerial ranks than by any rational agenda. Now, its dishonesty would be organized, controlled. It would be diverted to a single purpose…to spread exactly the ‘news’ she wanted Megarans to see. Control of the network gave her direct access to over thirty percent of the capital’s population, and billions more throughout the Confederation.
“I can’t express sincerely enough my admiration and gratitude for all you have achieved here, Gustav. I can assure you I will let…Father…know how well you have done.” The name Gaston Villieneuve wasn’t commonly known in the Confederation, but too many people in the circles she frequented for the operation were aware of exactly who he was…the former head of Sector Nine, and now, the effective ruler of the Union. Marieles was cautious by nature, and especially now, heading up perhaps the largest and most audacious espionage project in human history. She’d banned the use of Villieneuve’s name, and designated him instead as ‘Father.’
“I am very appreciative…thank you. You have directed the mission with great skill, Minister Marieles. I trust we will soon be able to move forward from these preparatory operations…and at last launch Black Dawn.”
“Soon, Gustav…hopefully.” Marieles had to admit to herself, she’d enjoyed far greater success than she’d imagined possible. But she wasn’t one to get carried away, and she knew Black Dawn was still a long way from completion. Perhaps not quite as long as it had been, but far from a guaranteed success. “Meanwhile, you know how to proceed.”
She stood still, quiet for a moment. “I have to go. I have another meeting…a very critical one.”
She had assets now in the media, industry, law enforcement, and the Senate. But she needed the military. That had been the toughest one. The Confederation armed forces were full of career officers and spacers, and, to her surprise, she’d found far less corruption in their ranks than she’d expected.
But now, she believed she’d found just what she was looking for, an officer…pliable enough…to play the role she’d prepared. Admiral Torrance Whitten wore three stars on his uniform, but he’d never commanded a force larger than a pack of convoy escorts. He owed his rank, and the absurd cluster of unearned decorations he wore on his chest, to his family’s wealth and power…and the manipulations of his Senator-father.
Marieles’ eyes had widened when she’d first read his profile. Whitten was almost perfect for her plans, a high-ranking officer, arrogant, from a highly-placed family, and bitter because of his perception that he’d been unfairly overlooked for promotions and real command positions. She suspected there were reasons for that, and almost certainly, Whitten was somewhat less than…tactically gifted. Hell, she’d realized reading the file, that he was most likely an utter incompetent, one who owed his continued career and exalted rank to the influence of his father.
Resentful, pompous, full of himself…she couldn’t imagine a better asset if she’d created one from thin air. Assuming she could subvert him to her cause, or, at least, whatever fiction of a cause she created for his ears. She was confident she could swing him, fairly so, at least, but she knew her game had to be perfect.
Let him complain, she reminded herself. Let him tell you how unfair it has all been, how his rivals derailed his career. Don’t even bring up that subject until he does.
She glanced down at the tablet in her hand, rereading the small summary and looking at the photo. Whitten might be a damned fool, a narcissistic idiot who’d managed to sideline a career that had been handed to him on a silver platter, but he was easy enough on the eyes, tall, trim, dark hair and eyes…just what she liked.
Unlike the disgusting Ferrell, she would handle this one very personally. She would bribe him, console him, gradually offer him the chance at revenge against those who had injured him…and a way to get him the rank and power he so rightfully deserved.
And, one more thing. Seduction was very much on the table with this one…
Chapter Forty-Three
CFS Dauntless
Zed-11 System
Year 315 AC
Barron stared at the display, all his will and determination pushing his thoughts to the battle, and not to his fr
iend down on the surface, barely clinging to life.
Dying…Doc said she is dying…
Barron had known for a long time that Atara Travis could be killed in action at any moment, but he’d always imagined, if it happened, it would be at her post on Dauntless, and he would go with her. The thought of her lying silent in a medpod, her body simply giving out, seemed wrong to him. If she had to die, it should be at his side, in action.
That didn’t make her less a hero, of course. She’d saved almost two hundred of her comrades, her sacrifice giving them all a chance to escape the deadly disease that, otherwise, surely would have killed every one of them. It also spared him the burden of deciding whether to abandon the people on the surface. As soon as Doc Weldon cleared the last of the landing party, he could bring them all back up to the fleet and get the hell out of this system…and go home to warn the entire Rim that the fleet had found not scattered old tech or data of historical significance, but a deadly new enemy.
Assuming we survive this battle…
That was far from a sure thing. The fleet was holding its own, barely. He knew he owed that mostly to Jake Stockton and his squadrons. Anya Fritz’s mines and Stockton’s fighter strikes had caused enough damage to equalize the fight between Barron’s battleships and the technologically superior Hegemony vessels. Even as he sat in the control center, his thoughts drifting back and forth between Atara and the battle underway, his people—on every ship in the fleet, not just Dauntless—worked feverishly to deliver death and destruction to the enemy. Sweating gunners labored at their panels, supervising and adjusting the targeting of the AIs, trying to recognize patterns in the enemy moves. Dauntless’s teams were used to being the best, pounding their enemies relentlessly with hit after hit. But the maneuverability of the Hegemony vessels defied their skills, and reduced their hit ratio to one more befitting a group of rookie trainees instead of the deadliest veterans in space.
Or at least the deadliest on the Rim.
Barron leaned back in his chair, staring at the display. He’d been a flag officer for several years now, but he still had to remind himself at times that he was responsible for an entire fleet and not just a single vessel. That was harder now, since he’d filled in for Atara and taken direct command of the battleship.
But the fleet didn’t need anything from him, not now, not really. There were no elaborate tactics, no ruses of war that would make a difference. The enemy ships were faster, more maneuverable…and the fleets were already nose to nose, blasting away at each other. The individual gunner, targeting his turret and scoring a hit, or a launch bay tech, getting a squadron ready and back out into space ten minutes sooner…the battle was in their hands, thousands of his people, veterans, all working. And, every one of them giving his or her best…of that much, Barron was certain.
It was frustrating, but, though he knew his fleet could lose—that, unless Stockton could get enough of his squadrons refit in damaged bays and relaunched into the fight, they probably would lose—there was still nothing for him to do but watch.
Dauntless shook again, another of the enemy beams connecting. The flagship had been spared a hit from the deadly railguns, but Barron knew it could happen at any time. Dauntless had taken considerable damage, but her primaries had held out during the entire approach. Now, at point blank range, he’d switched over to the more numerous and quicker-firing secondaries. Dauntless was locked in a duel with one of the big enemy vessels, and each ship was moving toward the other, cutting the already short range to knife-fighting distance. It was a death struggle, a duel only one ship could survive, and Barron flashed back to the battle years before with Katrine Rigellus and Invictus. The old Dauntless had won that desperate fight, though only by the slimmest of margins. For all the skill and dedication of his people, Barron had never deceived himself that the slim difference in that fight had not been bravery or training. In that, the two sides were evenly matched. Nor had his tactical capability exceeded that of his brilliant rival—Katrine Rigellus had been a brilliant tactician.
No, he’d always known that luck had been the margin at Santis, that fortune had favored him that day and condemned his noble enemy. The luck that had saved him then had been with him on many occasions since. He wondered if he could count on such favor again…or if he’d used up his generous allotment, if he’d come so far from home only to meet defeat and death.
“Admiral, Captain Stockton reports he is launching Blue and Scarlet Eagle squadrons…both fitted out for bombing missions.”
Sonya Eaton’s voice pulled him from his recollections. “Very well. Give Captain Stockton my best wish…” He paused. “No, put me on the channel with the launching squadrons.”
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later: “On your line, Admiral.”
“Blues and Eagles…this is Admiral Barron. I know most of you are used to launching as interceptors, but right now, we need you to bomb the hell out of those enemy battleships. You are the best pilots on Dauntless…the best in the whole damned fleet, but you know that already. What some of you may not know, is the list of names that have preceded you, the aces and heroes who served in your two celebrated units…and who are no longer here. They have been gone, lost in a seemingly endless series of desperate fights, in some cases for many years now…but they are all here with you today.”
He was speaking, of course, mostly at least, of pilots who had been killed in action, though his mind drifted to the Eagles’ former commander, Dirk “Warrior” Timmons. Timmons had been the only pilot Barron had ever met who rivaled Stockton in daring and skill. But, Timmons had lost both legs in a terrible crash in the old Dauntless’s landing bay. He’d mastered his prostheses, and Barron had no doubt the pilot could fly, perhaps as well as ever. But regulations had cost him his active wings, and Timmons was back at the Academy know, teaching new pilots. Barron suddenly wished Warrior was back where he belonged, in the cockpit of a fighter…alongside his onetime rival and now friend, Raptor.
“You are following, probably the best pilot who has ever lived…so go, now, and once again show the enemy what Confederation aces can do.”
Barron reached down and cut the line…and a few seconds later, he felt the familiar vibrations, as Dauntless’s launch catapults send her elite squadrons back into the fray.
* * *
“It’s the energy transmission lines, Commodore. We’ve lost power to all the guns on the port broadside.”
Damn! Sara Eaton slammed her fist against her thigh. She was usually a block of ice on the bridge, hiding her emotions—certainly ones like frustration and fear, at least—from her crew. But she knew just how close the battle was. The fleet needed every ship in the line, and Repulse was one of its heaviest battleships.
“Fire up the positioning jets. Bring the starboard guns around to bear. And, revise our evasion plan to account for the new aspect.”
“Yes, Commodore.” The nav officer had paused for an instant before responding, and Eaton knew why. The change in bearing would require a reprogramming of the evasive maneuvers, and there was no way that could be implemented without reducing effectiveness, at least for a short time. And, at the range Repulse had closed to, even one extra hit from those enemy beams—and God, forbid, one of the railguns—could make the difference between her ship surviving the fight or not.
Assuming any of us survive…
“Executing, Commodore.”
Before she could respond, Eaton felt a series of slight vibrations, one after the other. Fighters launching.
“Very well, Commander,” she replied, a few seconds later than normal. She thought about her squadrons. The enhanced evasive maneuvers were playing havoc with fighter operations, and she suspected the bearing change she’d just ordered—and about which flight control knew nothing—would make things worse. Still, her launch bay crews were getting at least some ships out, even if the wild gyrations in Repulse’s thrust meant they were scattered all over the place, with squadron formations nothing but an unattainable
dream.
She imagined the disorganization, which was hardly limited to Repulse’s fighters, was gutting the effectiveness of the bombing runs, but then she glanced up at the display and saw clusters of bombers moving in, at least a dozen of them against the enemy ship closest to Repulse. They were from different squadrons, intermixed and coming in from all angles. But, somehow, they were making it work.
She knew exactly how. Jake Stockton. She’d been surprised when Barron had promoted his strike force leader and put him in overall command of the entire fleet’s fighters. Eaton had been a ship commander before she’d become a commodore, and she understood that any captain would be disgruntled, at least, to lose any portion of command authority over his or her vessel, and for the battleships, that damned sure included the fighter wings.
But, Stockton was proving the wisdom of Barron’s move, as he had been since the first enemy ships had arrived. His wings had recognized their advantage immediately, and they’d been pounding it home ever since. Eaton knew the fleet would have been obliterated already if it hadn’t been for the initial bombing runs, and now, Stockton was leading scattered bits and pieces of his wings, whatever ships the beleaguered battleships could get back into space, and he was turning the chaos into a coordinated assault, one that was keeping the fleet in the fight.
She saw that Repulse had completed its reorientation, and before the nav officer could report to that effect, she turned toward the tactical station and said, “Starboard batteries…open fire!”