by Jay Allan
“Indeed, Mr. Vance, I do not believe I have ever tasted such a delightful wine.” Fung put his glass on the table. “You must give me the name and vintage so I can acquire some for my own cellar.”
“I’m afraid it’s not generally available, Mr. Fung.” Vance set his own glass down. “The pre-Blight vintages are almost extinct. I have a small cache they keep for me here. I’m afraid I have already hunted down and purchased every available bottle. However, I will be happy to send you one to celebrate our transaction.” His voice changed, became almost imperceptibly more serious in tone. “Speaking of which, do you have the proposed figures for me?”
Fung’s hand slipped inside his jacket, and he placed a small data chip on the table, sliding it toward Vance. “I think you will find this proposal acceptable.” He paused for a few seconds. “My board is quite impatient for your response. I will be in Paris for another day. Is it possible you can review this today and give me a response before I leave?”
“Of course, Mr. Fung.” Vance looked down at the small chip. She must have found something important, he thought, if she’s so anxious for my input. “I will review your proposal this evening and provide you with some feedback. Perhaps we can breakfast together tomorrow, say 9am at my hotel?”
Fung nodded. “That would be most satisfactory, Mr. Vance. Thank you.”
“Of course, you realize I will have to review this in greater detail with my own board before I can offer anything final.”
“Certainly, Mr. Vance. I appreciate even your preliminary feedback.”
Vance nodded and raised his hand slightly, signaling to the waitress. “For now, why don’t we enjoy our lunch?” Vance wished he could leave immediately and read Li An’s report on the data chip, but his cover demanded he waste time on banal playacting. “The Bouillabaisse is particularly excellent.”
Stark glanced out the window of the private shuttle. It was leased through a dummy corporation…several layers of them, actually. It had been built for the highest levels of Corporate Magnate and Political Class users, and no comfort had been spared in its appointments.
Stark was uncomfortable, nevertheless. He was used to his own shuttle, but the time had come to leave that behind…along with so many other things. Project Shadow had been proceeding satisfactorily, and now it was time for stage 2. Gavin Stark would be dead soon, buried in the radioactive rubble of Alliance Intelligence HQ…at least that’s how it would appear. The Alliance and the CAC would probably be at war within a week, their long-atrophied ground forces creaking into action, beginning the dance Stark had so carefully choreographed. How long, he thought, before all the Powers were at each other’s throats? He’d projected 3-4 months, but that was the one part of the plan he had to admit was pure guesswork. But he knew how all the nations functioned, and he was sure war would come.
Things had gone well so far. Garret had been a problem, of course, just as Stark expected. But soon he would have the CAC fleet to deal with…and probably the Caliphate’s too. War on Earth would spread to space immediately. The ruling classes, threatened at their very doorsteps as they hadn’t been in over 100 years, would panic…they would act rashly. They would seek to gain advantage anywhere they could. If not tools of victory, the colonies they seized would be bargaining chips in mitigating defeat at the negotiating table. At least that’s how those in charge thought. Stark expected it would be rather more difficult to put a stop to total war, even when defeat was imminent. When cities were nuked into rubble and the lower classes were rioting and rebelling, it would take more than a few dozen diplomats filling rooms with CO2 to pull things back from the brink.
He did a mental tally of the strength of the combined CAC and Caliphate fleets. Despite their loss in the Third Frontier War and the ample displays of Garret’s genius since then, he had no doubt they would simply add up hulls and assume they could win the fight in space.
That’s right, Augustus, he thought with wicked delight…I will pull back all my ships and leave you alone once they attack. Fight the CAC and the Caliphate, and destroy them with your tactical brilliance…I will be most grateful for your help. “Then bring your battered survivors back to me,” he whispered to himself. “Even Liang Chang will be able to defeat your handful of broken ships limping back without supplies or refit.”
Stark and Garret had tangled before. Stark smiled thinking back at the defeats Garret and his allies had handed him. Wouldn’t the great admiral be amused, he thought, if he knew how vital to my plans he was?
He’d gone to great lengths to precipitate war between the Powers. He needed war. Without the fleets destroying each other, Shadow would leave Stark ruling only the Alliance colonies, and his naval units would be no match against those of the rapacious other Powers. No, Stark wasn’t after partial power…he wanted it all, to rule not a group of colonies, not a Superpower…but all mankind. He wouldn’t leave anyone with the strength to oppose him.
War on Earth was essential to his plans. He needed a high intensity conflict in space, one that would force the navies to fight to the last and not just fence with each other over moderate targets…and if cities on Earth were being bombed into rubble, the Powers would order their space-based forces into endless combat. Nothing would cause the escalation he needed like combat on Earth itself.
A terrestrial conflict would clear away the Powers and their massive armies. His armored Shadow warriors were vastly superior to anything the Earthly nations possessed, but he couldn’t match the tens of millions of soldiers, the legions of main battle tanks, the sea-going battle platforms and waves of atmospheric aircraft. No…he needed the Powers to destroy themselves first. He had them on the brink, and in a few days he’d push them onto an irrevocable path to destruction. Then his forces…fresh, undamaged, would take control of the smoking remnants…and Earth and all of human space would be his.
“Prepare for takeoff in 30 seconds.” The ships’ AI had a female voice, soft, comforting.
The soothing nature was lost on Stark. He hated space. He’d been from one end to the other of mankind’s interstellar dominions as a young intelligence officer, but his hatred had only grown. The colonists were a bunch of unruly loudmouths who didn’t know enough to do what they were told. And there wasn’t a colony with any real level of urban sophistication. Most of them, he thought derisively, were more like some county seat, where farmers hauled their harvested wheat and prize pigs to market. At least they were compared to a true metropolis like Washbalt.
He didn’t know if any of Earth’s cities would survive the coming conflagration…he rather doubted it. But a price had to be paid for progress, and cities could always be rebuilt. It was one of the unappealing aspects of his grab for power – that he would have to do without the comforts of a true city for a while – but if he had to rough it for a few years, so be it.
Stark let out a breath as the acceleration of liftoff pushed him into his seat. Heading into space is another price I have to pay, he thought. Things were likely to get bad on Earth…very bad. It was too dangerous to try to manage Shadow from any terrestrial location…even the Dakota site. No one would go in or out of there – or even send a communique – until he gave the coded order to release the reserve legions. His presence would increase the threat of detection…and he didn’t want to take a chance on getting stuck on Earth when things got really bad. Better to run the program from the off-planet command post.
Stark wasn’t usually sentimental, but he found himself looking out the small window, catching one last glimpse of the Washbalt skyline in the distance. He’d lived there all his adult life. All the restaurants he liked, the women he visited, the apartment he’d finally gotten just the way he liked it…he was leaving it all behind, probably forever. He knew it could be a long time before he saw Earth again, and when he finally did, he doubted he’d recognize it. But whatever was left of it would be his…and his alone.
“What the hell are you up to, you psychotic maniac?” Vance stared at the screen, amazed
at the intel Li An had managed to scrounge up in such a short time. My God, he thought…could it actually be Stark behind both the coming financial apocalypse and the unexplained invasions of Alliance colony worlds?
Li An’s data was enormously incomplete. With a routine intelligence matter, she’d never have released it until she could confirm more of the details. But both she and Vance were beginning to believe this was a life and death situation, and the slightest scrap of information…even a decent hunch…was important.
There were two references to South Dakota in the reams of raw intel she had sent over. Both were related to what appeared to be large expenditures of the missing funds. There was a third possible money trail, very vague and convoluted, that might also lead to that site.
“South Dakota?” Vance thought out loud, the confusion evident in his whispered tones. A state in the American section of the Alliance, it was a backwater, largely undeveloped and dotted with hotspots where old U.S. missile bases had been targeted during the Unification Wars. “What could be in South Dakota?”
Vance was usually disciplined, but now he found his mind continually wandering. Nothing Gavin Stark could do would surprise him, but he was having trouble grasping the idea of a plan so vast it could consume more than the GDP of a Superpower for 5-10 years. He was mystified as well at the brilliance of the cover up hiding the missing funds for so long. It was almost as if Stark had managed to create new money out of thin air. The truth was rather more problematic, however. The funds were all illusion, and the deception was finally about to fail. In a few days, weeks at the most, trillions of credits of financial obligations were going to be revealed as frauds, fabrications. Economists had been debating financial collapses for centuries, but now they were about to get the biggest of them all. It would be a miracle if it didn’t lead to all-out war and the destruction of the terrestrial Superpowers.
Could that be part of his plan, Vance thought? “What would Stark gain by throwing Earth into Armageddon?” His whispers were deep and hoarse. He reached over to the pitcher on the table and filled a glass with water, draining two-thirds of it almost immediately. “What would he gain?” he asked himself again.
There was nothing he could do about the economic situation. He didn’t think there was any way to undo that damage. He had a team working on it, just in case, but he wasn’t at all hopeful they would come up with anything. They were quarantined on a small research facility on Deimos, no contact with the outside world except a one way beacon to signal that they discovered something. Vance hated locking up his own people like prisoners, but he couldn’t chance a leak that could trigger the collapse any sooner than it was already going to happen. And, while he didn’t expect them to develop a workable plan, he had to try, at least.
This mysterious Dakota site, he thought…that’s a different matter now, isn’t it? If he could locate it, it might be just the lead he needed to figure what Stark was up to.
Of course, he thought, scolding himself for getting prematurely excited, it could be anything…it might even be a phantom…part of the fraud. Or “it” could be a lot of its, scattered all over the place. He had no idea. But he was damned sure going to find out.
Chapter 21
Great Sentinel Forest
Planet Armstrong
Gamma Pavonis III
The fire was heavy…and it was getting heavier. Major Danton was up on the forward line, directing the advance. Colonel Storm had launched his planned counter-attack, committing the last of the reserves and throwing the enemy back with the ferocity of the assault. Danton’s 2nd Battalion had been one of those just-activated formations, and now his entire regiment had pushed forward. The newly released strength turned the momentum to the Marines, and they had driven the enemy back 2 klicks. But now the advance was slowing a lot sooner than he’d expected. Resistance was thickening, and his own casualties were spiking rapidly.
Fuck, he thought…where the hell are they getting all these troops? He’d had a pretty good read on the forces he was facing and the casualties his people had inflicted. But he couldn’t reconcile with the reports he was getting now…or the scene right in front of him. The enemy forces were far larger than he’d expected, and it felt like they were getting stronger and stronger, even as they fell back.
“Major Danton, Lieutenant Davison here, sir.” The officer on the other end of the com sounded like he was 15 years old. Danton knew part of that was just him feeling old. It was getting harder and harder sending these kids into battle. Too few of them came back.
“What is it, Davison?” It took him a second to place the name. He was part of the training battalion Danton had assigned to back up Captain Santi’s forces…third or fourth in line of command, if he remembered correctly. Fourth, he confirmed, as he checked the OB on his tactical display. An acting lieutenant only, like all the officers in the junior training battalions.
“Captain Santi’s dead, sir.” Davison sounded shaky, his voice cracking as he spoke. “Captain Glantz and Lieutenant Solomon too.” He paused, breathing loudly into the com. “I’m…I’m in command, sir.”
“Get a grip on yourself, Davison.” Danton spoke sharply, almost harshly to the panicked young officer. He empathized with Davison, but he needed to get through to the kid. Fast. He needed everyone’s best right now.
“Yes, sir.”
He sounds a little better, Danton thought…at least I think so. “Now report.” He snapped out the command firmly.
“They’re running, sir.” His voice was quickly losing the tiny burst of confidence. The whole battalion, sir. I can’t stop them.”
Danton muted the connection and snapped at his AI, instructing it to show him Davison’s position on the tactical display. “Fuck,” he whispered under his breath as he saw the small blue icons streaming away from the line. He’d never seen a Marine battalion in wholesale rout…but then these weren’t really Marines. They were underclassmen from Camp Basilone, recruits who hadn’t completed half their training and who’d been pushed forward totally unarmored against first class powered infantry. They were running now, but that didn’t tell the whole story. They’d held for a good while – longer than Danton had a right to expect – and they were leaving almost half their number on the field.
He unmuted the connection to Davison. “Lieutenant, fall back with your troops.” He paused, looking at the map projected inside his visor. “Attempt to rally them at…” – he was still looking at the screen, trying to find a place far enough to the rear where Davison had a chance to reform his terrified recruits – “…Blackwood Hill.” That was almost ten klicks back. He knew Davison didn’t have a prayer of stopping the rout anywhere closer to the front. But he didn’t have time to worry about Davison’s people now. He had to figure out how to plug the hole in his line before the entire advance collapsed.
The armor felt odd, the inner membrane cool against her bare skin. Sarah Linden hadn’t worn her fighting suit for years, but Admiral Jacobs had flatly refused to let her land any other way. Neither side controlled the space around Armstrong…it was a kind of no man’s land where a small destroyer squadron could temporarily claim local superiority. Far too dangerous to allow the Corps’ senior medical officer to hop into a regular shuttle. He didn’t like the idea of her and her people landing at all, but he insisted outright that if they were going, they were doing it fully armored in Gordon landers.
The acceleration from the launch catapult took her back through the years. There’s no feeling quite like that, she thought, as she struggled to get her breath back. Sarah had spent most of her career in the medical branch, first in years of training and then as an active surgeon on some of the worst battlefields where men and women have fought. But everyone in the Corps started as a combat soldier, and it had been no different for her. She’d only made two combat drops, and both of them were routine missions…nothing like the bloody nightmares she’d seen as a surgeon. But the feeling of descending through the upper atmosphere of a contested wo
rld was something you never forgot.
Very little intel had gotten out from Armstrong, but she was sure Erik’s army was in a hard fight. Cain won battles – perhaps better than anyone in the history of the Corps – but his victories left huge numbers of shattered Marines on the field, broken men and women who deserved the best care the Corps could give them. Sarah had lagged behind Cain’s army this time, tending to the wounded from his last battle. But now she was here, and she’d be damned if anything was going to keep her from caring for the shattered Marines she knew were waiting for her down on the surface.
She didn’t have any equipment…just 40 of her best people. But Armstrong wasn’t some miscellaneous colony world. It was the home of the Marine Corps, and the hospital there was the biggest and best equipped anywhere in human space. She knew the facility itself would be off-limits…most of the fighting would be around the capital city of Astria, and Cain would almost certainly have evacuated all non-combat personnel. But he’d have moved all the portable equipment as well, and she was sure the staff would have set up a series of field hospitals.
Her visor flipped open as the Gordon continued its rough ride to the surface. The zigzag pattern was a precaution. There’d been no sign of any enemy ground to air fire capability, but Jacobs insisted on the full assault landing profile. And that included a pattern of sudden, random movements designed to defeat targeting AIs. Sarah was glad she’d insisted all her people follow the 36 hour intravenous feeding program the combat Marines used. They weren’t used to being bounced around quite so roughly.
Jacobs had tried to convince her she wasn’t needed on the surface at all…that the hospital staff was perfectly capable of caring for the wounded. She didn’t argue with him; she simply told him she was going. One look at her expression was enough to convince him he’d never change her mind.