by Jay Allan
Vance sighed hard. He had to do something. The loss of Erik Cain on top of everything else would be devastating. Cain was almost certainly the greatest ground tactician in human space. He was irreplaceable…and his brilliance was crucial if Gavin Stark’s plans were to be defeated. If Stark managed to take out Cain, he’d be halfway to victory with nothing but an assassin’s bullet.
He had to get a warning to the Alliance general. His hands curled up into fists, and he slammed them down on the table in frustration. He was already late. Maybe too late.
He hit the comlink. “Captain Campbell, I need you in here immediately.”
The door slid open almost at once, and Campbell came stomping in. “Yes sir,” he rattled off as he hurtled through the door.
“We need to get a message to Armstrong right away.”
Campbell paused for a few seconds, thinking. “We don’t have access to the Alliance’s Commnet system, sir. They locked us out after the Dakota attack.”
“It’d be too unreliable anyway. We don’t even know if the station in Armstrong’s system is still functioning.” Vance rose slowly. “But we’ve got a Torch in the landing bay, and it can reach Armstrong in less than a week with a good pilot pushing it to the limit.” He looked up at John Carter’s skipper.
Campbell didn’t say anything, but a doubtful expression crossed his face. He had a feeling he knew what Vance was going to ask…and there was no way Campbell could refuse. But a week was almost impossibly fast for a trip to Armstrong.
“Yes, I know it’s a tight timetable.” Vance seemed to anticipate Campbell’s concern. “But this is urgent. Which is why I need to send the best pilot I’ve got.” Vance was staring right into Campbell’s eyes.
John Carter’s captain looked back, final realization kicking in. “You want me to go, sir?”
“I know this seems like a job below your pay grade, Duncan.” The tension in Vance’s voice told Campbell that wasn’t the case. Whatever it was, if it had Roderick Vance this edgy, it was probably downright critical. “But this is extremely important. I’d go myself if I could get away from the crisis here. But then I’m not half the pilot you are.”
“Of course, Mr. Vance. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” Campbell didn’t like the idea of leaving his command in time of crisis to play messenger, but if Roderick Vance said it was important, it was a good bet it was a six-alarm emergency. “I’ll leave immediately, sir. What do you want me to do?”
“You need to get to Armstrong and find General Erik Cain.” Vance spoke grimly, uncharacteristic fear creeping into his voice. “No matter what it takes, Duncan.” He stood up behind his desk. “And you need to tell him that Gavin Stark has sent one of his very best assassins to kill him.” He paused, eyes fixed on Campbell’s. “Her name is Alexandra Linden.”
Chapter 6
Base Omega
Asteroid Belt
Altair System
Gavin Stark was livid, his anger almost beyond the considerable capacity of his own iron will to control. Fucking Roderick Vance, he thought, his clenched fist slamming down on the table. It was bad enough the interfering Martian spy had identified the hidden base in the Dakotas, but the son of a bitch had actually launched a massive nuclear attack from orbit and completely destroyed it.
Stark had always known Vance was a capable and dangerous enemy, but he’d still allowed himself to be surprised by the Martian’s audacity. He’d always considered Vance to be a genius, but he’d never imagined the Martian spy had balls enough to pull something like this. He was angry at his own failure to consider just how far Vance was prepared go, and he resolved never to underestimate one of his enemies again.
Stark had known he had a limited amount of time before the Alliance moved forces into the Dakotas to investigate. Vance had undoubtedly provided Alliance Gov with the intel his commandoes had collected during their raid. But Stark had given the inbred hacks who ran the Alliance other things to think about…including a nuclear detonation right in the center of the capital.
He had counted on the bombing of Alliance Intelligence HQ to scare the shit out of the politicians…and buy him time to relocate the most vital resources from Facility Q before they sent their forces in and shut it all down. He knew the Alliance bureaucrats, and he’d been sure they would be more worried about bombs taking out their own buildings than seriously addressing alarmist rants from the Confederation’s top spy. He realized that wouldn’t give him unlimited time. He knew he wouldn’t get all his clones out of there, but he’d figured on getting some…and the most vital production equipment as well. Now it was a total loss. He had battle-ready forces deployed in half a dozen remote bases hidden around the globe, but Facility Q was the heart of the Earthside operation. He’d be able to put at most 200,000 troops in the field now, an 80% reduction in his projected combat strength.
He’d have to modify the plan. He’d originally intended to instigate war between the Powers on Earth, and release his million fully-armored clones at the right moment…defeating the battered land armies and seizing control of each Superpower in turn. He’d imagined it would be a damaged Earth he would rule over, but he’d hoped to preserve at least some of the existing infrastructure and productive capacity. But now he would have to make certain the Superpowers fought their war to the end, that their cities were pounded into radioactive dust, their armies locked in a death struggle until they’d savaged each other into oblivion. It would mean hundreds of millions more dead and the nearly total destruction of Earth’s civilization, but it was the only way he could be sure his reduced forces could take total control. And he wasn’t about to let anything interfere with his victory. He would have total power, no matter what it took. If he ruled a devastated, depopulated, irradiated world, so be it. Contamination could be cleaned up, rubble cleared away. Cities could be rebuilt and populations could be bred back to desired levels. And it would all be done under the watchful eyes of his clone soldiers.
Indeed, though it would take longer and involve enormous work, there might be advantages to a fresh start of sorts. Old cities, the products of centuries of disorganized growth would be replaced by new metropolises, designed from the ground up…perfect models of modern urban magnificence. People, too, would get a fresh start of sorts. A controlled eugenics program might produce a more useful race of subjects than the current mix of genetically inferior Cogs, gutless middle class drones, and inbred political-class cronies. He would steward the creation of a super-race, smarter, more purposeful…and conditioned from birth for total obedience to the state. And the state would be Gavin Stark.
It might take the rest of Stark’s natural life to see the rebuilding come to fruition, but what a monument to leave behind. And he would leave it to his own dynasty. Not the chaotic uncertainty of a series of conventional children and grandchildren. Nothing so random and variable. When all the resources and technology of mankind could no longer keep Stark’s body alive he would bequeath his power to himself…to the Gavin Stark clone whose rule would follow his.
From the dawn of history man has raged against his own mortality. Great kings erected statues and built gargantuan mausoleums in misguided bids for eternal life. Others left behind historical and scientific achievements that insured their names would live on long after their bodies turned to dust. But Gavin Stark would achieve something orders of magnitude beyond what any historical conquerors or kings had imagined. Mankind would be ruled for eternity by a Stark clone. He would achieve true immortality…or the closest thing possible. In a thousand years…and in ten thousand…men would submit on bended knee to Gavin Stark. He would become like a god ruling over a galaxy of supplicants.
He pulled himself back from his rambling thoughts. His normally rigid discipline had been failing him at times, and he had become prone to fits of anger and moments of wild imaginings. But now he forced himself to concentrate, to regain his focus. Humanity ruled by generation after generation of Stark clones was an appealing image, but first he had to su
cceed in his bid for power. He had to win this war.
He sat quietly for a few minutes, honing his thoughts, working himself back into that cold emotionless state that had always made him such a successful operator. He’d have to readjust the plan for his intervention on Earth; that much was clear. He had time for that. His other bases seemed to be secure, and his people would maintain security protocols and wait for his word to move. But he had to speed up the timetable on Earth. He’d hoped to secure the Alliance colonies and finish off Garret’s fleet and the Marines before pushing the homeworld over the brink, but now he didn’t have the luxury of waiting. He needed war on Earth, and he needed it now.
Gavin Stark was a compulsive planner. His schemes had multiple layers and backups…just waiting for the moment they were needed. Like now. A tiny smile crept onto his lips. He might just be able to kill two birds with one stone…and give Roderick Vance a few distractions while he was at it.
He nodded his head slowly as he reached out for the com controls and pressed a button. “Anderson-2…” – he’d kept the command clone as his direct aide – “…please prepare a Commnet transmission to Earth.” He took a deep breath. The more he thought about it, the more he was confident it was the right move. “I am activating Operation C6.”
Gaston Lucerne stood on the quay, looking out at the turbulent waters of the Mediterranean. There was a storm rolling in, and the ships of Marseilles’ fishing fleet were hurrying back to port. The city had long drawn its economic strength from the sea, though for the last hundred years or more, it was the offshore algae fields and not the fishing boats that were the real engines of its economy. The middle class, and the worker classes – la Salete, as they were commonly called by the Classes Politiques, subsisted on manufactured foods, mostly created from pollution-resistant algae grown in the vast offshore farms. The Marseilles algae fields were the most productive in Europe, and the city exported the processed food precursor to finishing plants throughout Europa Federalis.
The fleet plied a different trade, scouring the played out seas and searching through their meager catches, discarding most of the fish, the ones contaminated by the runaway pollution and mutated by the radioactives that had settled into the water. They searched diligently, looking for the few pure specimens that remained.
Most prized were the Red Scorpionfish and the Sea Robin, prime ingredients in the ancient regional dish called Bouillabaisse. Originally a meal made by peasant fisherman, it was now a priceless delicacy, eaten only by the most privileged classes of politicians and corporate managers. The uncontaminated fresh seafood required to make a large batch cost enough to feed a Salete family for months.
The fishermen plying the waters around Marseilles, scavenging for the remnants of a once rich bounty, lived a life different from most of the Saletes in Europa Federalis. Instead of a boring life of sustenance wages, theirs was a wild ride…bounty when their fortunes were good, and deprivation and misery when they weren’t.
Lucerne had been born into a family of fishermen, but he’d found a way to escape a life of hardship and poverty. As far as the Saletes of the Marseilles docks knew, he’d traveled throughout Europa Federalis as a seafood buyer, searching for rare catches to serve an elite market. But he had another job too, a considerably more lucrative one…working for Gavin Stark’s Alliance Intelligence. Lucerne found he had a talent for espionage, and no cumbersome loyalties to the Europan government to get in his way. He rose quickly to become one of Stark’s top agents in Europa Federalis…and ultimately one of the few operatives the Alliance spymaster recruited into his Shadow program.
He walked slowly past the wharves, making his way to his ship. He’d returned to his old home with the cover that he’d lost his job and come back to eke out a living from the sea. He’d been on station for months, the steward of a single operation, going through the motions as a fisherman and waiting for the word from Stark to act.
Finally, that word came. He’d gotten his orders…and confirmed the authorization codes. Operation C6 was a go. He’d had the equipment in place for months, just waiting for him to enter the final arming codes. Now, Lucerne had done the deed. All he had to do was get back to his boat and get out of Marseilles…while there still was a Marseilles.
He walked past the bulk of one of the larger vessels, and Mouette came into view. She was a wreck, or at least she looked that way to the casual observer. Just the kind of ship a destitute fisherman might lease. There was more to her than met the eye, though…high-powered motors, AI-controlled nav system, and enough hidden firepower to sink the rest of Marseilles’ fishing fleet.
He climbed aboard, placing his palm on the reader and opening the hatch. He started the engines, and eased the ship back, turning slowly, angling the bow toward the exit channel. The ship sputtered and poured out thick, black smoke…the AI operating the super-powered engines carefully maintaining the illusion of a barely functional wreck. He got one or two odd stares from passersby on the docks. The ships were coming into port now, not leaving. But it didn’t matter. They’d all be dead soon anyway.
He cruised slowly out to sea, watching the city disappear over the horizon. He continued for nearly an hour, traveling a fraction of the vessel’s potential speed, maintaining the illusion. Anyone watching would assume he was crazy enough to head out into a brewing storm, but they’d never imagine his ship was state of the art, with AI-controlled navigation and enough power to get through any weather. Finally, he stopped the engines and let the boat drift to a stop. He was 40 kilometers offshore, far enough to escape the effects of the hell he was about to unleash.
He flipped a lever, and part of the control panel slipped away, revealing a small workstation. He punched in a code and placed his hand on the palm scanner. He looked out through the small porthole, seeing nothing but open sea, but imagining his bustling hometown. It was late afternoon. The boats would be mostly in by now, fleeing the rough seas and heavy winds of the brewing storm. Children would be scurrying around the wharves, running to greet returning fathers and grandfathers.
He’d expected a wave of regret for what he was about to do, but it didn’t come, at least not a strong one. Thirty years of service with Alliance Intelligence had dulled his emotions, especially the useless ones like guilt and remorse. He was already a traitor to Europa Federalis, and 3 decades of working in Gavin Stark’s Alliance Intelligence had fundamentally changed his way of thinking. The citizens of Marseilles, the pathetic Saletes infesting the waterfront…they would all die in a few seconds, their miserable existences erased with a blast of nuclear fire. Lucerne realized he didn’t care…whatever loyalties he may have had to childhood friends were gone, replaced by the coldly mercenary self-interest Stark instilled in all his people.
He glanced at the chronometer then turned and looked away. A few seconds later, the sky lightened. He knew the Marseilles waterfront was an incarnation of hell itself, the temperatures at ground zero reaching millions of degrees in a fraction of a second. The destruction would go on…firestorms raging for hours and radiation contaminating the entire area for years. But most of the city’s people were already dead, those who lived along the waterfront near ground zero simply vaporized, others burned to death or crushed by debris.
He smiled, congratulating himself on a job well done as he watched the huge cloud rise up over the horizon. Marseilles was gone, wiped from the map by 20 megatons of nuclear fury. When the Europan authorities investigated they would find clues…hints Lucerne himself had placed there. That data would point to the Central European League, and almost certainly lead to full scale war between the two bitter enemies. The Treaty of Paris would be shattered, and the European continent would be engulfed by total war.
But there would be other evidence too, indications Gavin Stark had ordered him to add at the last minute. And those clues would suggest Martian involvement as well. He tried to imagine the fallout, especially after the Confederation’s nuclear attack on the Alliance. Their pleas of innocence would f
all on deaf ears, and everyone would believe they had now attacked two Superpowers. Europa Federalis would probably declare war…and the other Powers would begin to fear and distrust the Martians.
He glanced at the chronometer. The shockwave would take another minute to reach his location. It would shake his little boat roughly, but the AI was well equipped to handle navigating through it.
Stark had planned the operation brilliantly. It would serve his purposes perfectly and hasten the war on Earth that was so crucial to his plans. Lucerne’s smile widened as he thought about Stark. He was always impressed by his master’s thoroughness, how he considered his actions from every angle. He reached down and hit the controls, plotting a course for Barcelona. He’d lay low in the safe house there for a few weeks. Then Stark would send him further instructions…and get him out of the impending war zone he’d helped to create. Then he would enjoy the rewards of his actions. He would have a high place in Stark’s new regime, and he would sit close to the center of power.
He punched the designated coordinates into the nav computer. He was still hitting keys when the AI executed one of its secret files, and the ship’s entire fuel supply detonated, leaving nothing larger than fist-sized bits of debris.
Gavin Stark did not leave loose ends.
Chapter 7
North of the Sentinel
Planet Armstrong
Gamma Pavonis III
Cain’s HQ was as makeshift a facility as he’d ever seen, just a few small portable shelters and half a dozen workstations. The army had been falling back continually, setting up one hasty defense after another. The desperate stands had cost heavily, but they’d given Eliot Storm’s troopers a chance to slip out of the enemy’s trap and pull back from the river line all the way through the Sentinel. Storm’s people had linked up with Cooper Brown’s wing along the northern edge of the great forest, ready to continue the withdrawal. All except the Obliterators. They had remained behind, ready to execute Erik Cain’s daring plan.