“I have some final instructions for her,” I concluded. “She will call you back on this frequency within five minutes. I want the two of you to begin getting to know each other, and to set up ultra-secure communications. Boss One, out.” I waved at the empty chair filling the other end of the comm room, hoping that Kaleen would understand and disconnect the comm link with Wil.
“Clear, Captain,” Kaleen said crisply, “What instructions did you have for me?”
I shrugged. “Nothing important, Kaleen. I wanted to warn you. Sneaker One will try to learn your identity, despite my orders.”
“He would disobey your orders?”
I winced. How was I going to explain this to a comp?
“He would not wish to, no. However, he is responsible for the lives of several hundred people. He will consider it his responsibility to make every effort to learn the identity of someone who could put those people at risk. He will probably try to interpret my orders in such a way as to permit him to violate the spirit of the order without violating its letter. Besides, Sneaker One is very good at his task, and he will convince himself that any punishment he might receive would be less important than his people’s lives.
“At any rate, Kaleen, I want you to be prepared. You can simply ignore or refuse to answer his questions and hints. You can even invent a persona; a whole background as a human. If his prying becomes too inconvenient, you could let something slip occasionally. Be careful, though. If he learns that no such person exists, you’d probably lose any of his trust you might have gained.”
“Yes, sir!” she replied crisply. I struggled to hide a grin. Kaleen was like an incredibly precocious child. I would have to remember that.
We arranged for Kaleen to report on a regular basis, and then I signed off so that she could start getting to know Wil Tor.
Our new intelligence agent delighted cord. “Once this is over,” he said with a grin, “I’m looking forward to getting to know Kaleen — that is, if you haven’t corrupted her by then.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure she’ll be effective. Given time, she’ll be coordinating our attacks.”
Cord was impatient. He wanted action. Finally, he overruled me, and ordered that Predator and Harpy ambush the two searching destroyers.
“But sir,” I protested, “We can’t afford to slug it out with Jonas’ ships mass for mass. Two destroyers fighting two destroyers mean four disabled or destroyed ships.”
Cord shook his head. “Our two will have those boats to help. But we must attack those two destroyers.”
“If we must, then at least wait until we can hit them with an overwhelming force; Predator, Harpy, Valkyrie, rim tramps and attack boats.”
“How long?”
I shrugged. “A week, maybe two. It takes time to plan and execute a multi-ship battle.”
He shook his head. “No. It can’t wait. Send the destroyers.”
“But, sir . . .”
He waved me to silence. “You don’t understand, Admiral. It’s not just important that we do something; we must be seen to do something. The people of the rim have to see that we’re actively resisting. Otherwise, their resistance falls apart. If we lose both destroyers, we still have to do it.
“Look, Admiral,” he continued in a more reasonable tone, “you understand military strategy and tactics; but I understand politics and group dynamics. This has to be done, and it must be done as soon as possible. By all means, give the destroyers any edge you can. If they can win decisively, it’ll be worth a dozen destroyers. But it must be done!”
Chapter XII
Rear Admiral Micah Jonas was not a happy man. It had all seemed so simple and foolproof back on Thaeron. He would simply move in with massive firepower on the unarmed planets of the rim, seize Haven and Cord, kill Cord, and present the Emperor with the return of a ‘renegade’ sector. Its very simplicity made the plan’s success almost inevitable. Besides, nobody would dare resist a flotilla powerful enough to destroy a planet.
He was well aware of the ancient adage that “no battle plan survives contact with the enemy” — but he’d been sure that there would be no battles. Surely even these provincials would realize that resistance to his overwhelming force would be doomed to failure.
However, things had begun going wrong almost immediately. First, Predator had deserted, providing Cord a nucleus for an armed space force, and incidentally revealing Micah’s plan to the Viceroy.
Then, Cord had dug up that damned Kedron somewhere, and suddenly what had been a simple exercise in gunboat diplomacy became a military gamble.
Then, Kedron had shown up at Thaeron claiming to be a Fleet Vice Admiral, and nearly destroyed Micah without firing a shot.
Kedron’s visit had cost Micah dearly. He’d lost two more of his ships, strength he was becoming painfully aware that he could ill afford. He'd also lost hundreds of crewpeople when hand-to-hand combat had broken out on all of his ships between those who’d believed Kedron’s message and those who’d remained loyal to Micah. Over two hundred died, and almost a thousand more had to be confined to various brigs.
It had been a near thing. Micah’s plan had almost ended in disaster. It’d taken months for Micah to regain enough control to proceed. He was getting desperate. The plan could still work, but time was getting short.
He’d breathed a huge sigh of relief when he’d finally given the order for the flotilla to jump to Haven. However, it seemed his relief had been premature.
Certainly, Cord had fled as soon as Micah’s ships emerged at the edge of Haven’s system. Micah had watched in impotent fury as blips identifying two destroyers, four of the ubiquitous rim tramps and a blip whose beacon identified her as a merchant vessel called Valkyrie drove for a secondary jump point. They’d disappeared before Micah’s forces were close enough to engage. He could have destroyed Cord, Kedron and the resistance in one blow if he’d been able to catch them. Oh, well, Cord couldn’t win without control of his sector capital. Eventually, he’d have to launch an attack. All Micah had to do was sit and wait.
Once his ships had assumed standard Fleet orbit positions, Micah had commandeered all commercial vid channels for his announcement.
“I am Rear Admiral Micah Jonas of the Empire Fleet,” he'd begun. “I have come to secure the arrest of the traitor Sander Cord and his criminal minion, Val Kedron, as well as to secure this sector for the Empire, and prevent its rebellion.
“I call upon all loyal citizens of the Empire to assist me in preserving the peace of this sector, and its quick return to the Empire’s fold. It will be necessary for me to temporarily impose martial law on the planet of Haven. Do not resist. Our marines are authorized to shoot when necessary to preserve order.
“However,” he’d continued with what he’d considered a friendly smile, “I’m sure that shooting will not be necessary. We are, after all, all loyal subjects of the Empire, despite Cord’s lies and duplicity. Unfortunately, the Viceroy’s treasonous acts require that I impose certain restrictions and directives until we’ve rooted out the traitors. I’m sure I can count on your cooperation. Please stay tuned for the regulations and instructions that are required to implement martial law."
He’d been pleased with his speech, but almost as soon as he finished, the commercial vid channels were suddenly blanketed by a broadcast originating somewhere off-planet.
“This is Viceroy Sander Cord,” it began, “Warrants are hereby issued for the arrest of former Rear Admiral Micah Jonas, and former Captain Jamin Van-Lyn, both recently cashiered from His Imperial Majesty’s service. These criminals are wanted for mutiny, rebellion, sedition, and high treason, and are wanted dead or alive. A reward of twenty thousand imperial crowns is offered for each of them. All Fleet personnel are reminded that these men are traitors to the Empire and the Fleet. Conflicting Fleet regulations are temporarily suspended, and Fleet personnel may claim the reward.
“I call upon all military and civilian personnel within the rim sector to resist these cri
minals in any way possible. Cooperation with these fugitives may result in imperial criminal charges up to and including treason and rebellion.”
It took Micah’s techs only moments to trace the signal to its source, but that source turned out to be a drone buoy orbiting at the edge of the system. It took more than three days for Raptor to get close enough to destroy the buoy, and all that time, Cord's message drowned out all broadcasts on the commercial channels.
Micah was furious. His carefully crafted message was made to look ridiculous, and his authority and legitimacy virtually destroyed by a thirty-second recorded message. Not only that, but everyone on the planet had to listen to the damned thing repeat over and over for more than three days!
In fury, Micah sent his other two Destroyers, Gyrfalcon and Eagle, to find Cord. Neither Captain was happy about putting their ships at risk, but Micah was adamant. By all the odd gods of the galaxy, he wanted Cord and Kedron!
He also decided to send Relentless to the Gamma system. He knew that Gamma and the four other closely associated planets along the far edge were the economic heart of the sector, as Haven was its political heart. It was essential that he have control of both.
Bon-Lor complained about being sent three jumps away without backup, but Micah had bullied the drunken sot into submission. In the end, Bon-Lor had complied, much to Micah's relief. Bon-Lor had been useful on Thaeron, but now, his drinking was making him a liability.
In the meantime, within minutes after his broadcast had concluded, Haven’s planetary government had called to capitulate. Less than ten minutes later, the marine detachment sent to seize the Viceroy’s palace had reported the palace secure, with no resistance. Micah had been relieved. Despite everything, the plan had seemed to be working. Then . . .
The first sign of trouble had come when Micah had shuttled down to the planet, to personally move into the Viceroy’s palace.
He’d walked into a dead building. There’d been no power to operate anything. His marines’d had to force the doors. The building had also been empty. Not only Cord was gone; there was a complete absence of people. Not a servant was to be found. Not a tech, either. The building was deserted. Unheated, the building’s interior temperature was well below zero. Hoarfrost decorated the walls.
The first order of business had been to restore the power. Once the comps were up, it would be simple to locate and secure the palace employees. He’d had Nemesis’ Chief Engineer come down, bringing a work party. Then he’d retreated to Nemesis. Time enough to move into the palace once the power was restored—and the heat.
The Chief had called back in less than half an hour. “The fusactor’s been dumped, sir,” he reported.
Micah had frowned. “Well, how long to get it up and running?”
“You don’t understand, sir,” the man protested, “The fusactor’s been dumped! All the fuel has been removed — and there’s no fuel in the storehouse. The fusactor’s cold. Once we can get the fuel, we could probably get it back on line in about forty-eight hours. But without fuel . . .”
Micah’s irritation was becoming more visible. “Well, get the fuel! Have it sent in, if necessary. But get that fusactor started. I need access to Cord’s comp!”
However, that blasted Cord had backed up the comp’s files and memory, then dumped the core. Even the basic operating system was gone. The same had been done to every government comp in Haven City. Even the records of the prisoners in Haven’s jails had been wiped.
As for the palace, it seemed that fuel rods no longer existed on Haven. In the end, it had taken a visit by Micah’s marines to the processing plant. Under the prodding of aimed weapons, the plant’s manager had remembered where some fuel rods were stored.
Finally, after almost a week, the palace had power, light, and heat. What it didn’t have was anyone who’d admit to being an employee there. Without the comp personnel files, Micah had no way to identify the workers. When he advertised for more workers, the only applicants were rather obviously the lazy, the incompetent, and the criminal. Micah had finally appointed an officer to oversee the palace personnel, but even so, meals were frequently late and rarely edible, laundry was as likely to be returned soiled and torn as clean, and housekeeping . . . well, the less said the better.
In the meantime, Micah had other troubles. An active underground resistance, for example. All Fleet property had to be constantly guarded, and even so, in many cases the guard disappeared along with the guarded. Moreover, even with the patrolling and guarding, Fleet weapons and equipment were sabotaged or destroyed.
Early on, Micah had tried to use detachments of marines to protect his people and equipment. However, every time they left the palace grounds, jeering crowds pelted them with garbage, insults, and taunts. When individual marines or small groups tried to go on liberty, if they didn’t end up retreating to the palace, they found restaurants that refused to serve them, and girls that cursed and assaulted them. When small parties began disappearing or turning up dead, Micah had no choice but to keep them close by.
The marines weren’t used to being treated as invaders and criminals. If a solution wasn’t found soon, their commander warned that Micah would begin seeing wholesale desertions.
Micah was not impressed. “Damn it, Colonel, Haven City has less than two million people. You have over six hundred marines and a shipload of weapons and equipment. Surely you can maintain control of a city that size!”
The Colonel struggled in vain to rein in his flaring temper. “Admiral,” he grated. “Haven’t you figured out yet that we’re the targets of a very well planned and executed guerrilla campaign?”
Micah grunted. “Pah! I thought marines were supposed to be good. What do they have to fear from an unarmed rabble? Patrol with sensors and detect every power cell in the city,” he continued. “That should lead you to them in no time. Really, Colonel, I shouldn’t have to do all your thinking for you!”
The Colonel flushed. “They are neither unarmed nor a rabble. They are very well armed and very well led. Moreover, we’ve been doing what you’re suggesting for days. Every power cell in the city has been located. But the resistance is using weapons that don’t use power cells. I have something to show you, sir.” His emphasis on the last word effectively conveyed his disgust with his superior. He spoke into his wrist comm. “Sergeant, bring in the stuff.”
The door opened and a sergeant and a private brought in armloads of what were obviously weapons. They placed them on the conference table then assumed the parade rest position.
“Private,” the Colonel ordered, “tell the Admiral about your patrol last night.”
“Yes, sir,” the private snapped. “My squad was ridin’ around in a hovertruck. I was talkin’ t’Snerson. Then alla a sudden this dart’s stickin’ outta his neck. He barely had time t' look s’prised before he collapsed. I looked around, and three more of the guys’re down. There was no way a’ tellin’ where the darts come from, no noise, no flash. Just guys dyin’.”
Micah shivered slightly. It wasn't a pretty picture.
“At first we all jus’ sprayed fire at anything and ever’thing within range,” The private continued. “Then I heard the screams. I turned aroun’, and Smiley’s face is melting! And the two guys on either side of him are screamin’, too. They was all screamin’ and squirmin’ around on the floor of the hovertruck. ‘Fore we cud even react, there’s this explosion, an’ the whole back end of the hovertruck was flames. I get blown outta the truck, and when I go to get up, I see Smitty jump down from the truck’s bed. His tunic’s on fire an’ he’s screamin’ somethin’ awful. So, I grab ‘im an’ roll ‘im like they taught us; but these flames wasn’t smothered. I grabbed my canteen to douse the flames, an’ the water just makes ‘em spread! I couldn’t do nothin’ but stand by and watch Smitty burn. I finally give ‘im a shot from my blaster, just t' stop the screamin’.
“By the time the Reaction Squad got there, they was only three o’ us left.” He shuddered. “An’ we nev
er saw nobody the whole time. Nobody!”
Micah was shaken. The Colonel nodded to the Sergeant and the Private, and they trooped out.
The Colonel swept a hand toward the display on the table. “These are what we’ve managed to pick up after fights with the enemy,” he began. “They usually manage to take their dead and wounded with them, but they’re not as careful with their weapons.”
He picked up an object that looked like an oversized, bulky sporting shoulder-laser stock. But there was no laser crystal, no projector. The Colonel fumbled with it for a moment, and then threw something on Micah’s desk.
It was about twenty centimeters long, with a wicked-looking barbed point at one end, and rudimentary fins at the other. Micah picked it up and examined it. The fins were angled and hinged at their fronts, and pivoted to fit within the stubby shaft of the object. It was all metal. “So this is the dart the private mentioned?” His anger with the Colonel was forgotten.
The Colonel shrugged. “It appears that our enemies have been digging into the history books, coming up with primitive weapons that don’t use power cells. That thing you’re holding is called a ‘bolt’ or ‘quarrel’, and this is the launcher. It’s called a ‘crossbow’. The sergeant who identified it for us says that this one’s an improvement over the originals. It uses a coil spring for power, and has a magazine that holds ten bolts. Evidently the ancient ones used a leaf spring of some type.”
Micah's brow wrinkled. “Spring powered? Surely they couldn’t be powerful enough to be dangerous?”
The Colonel smiled grimly. “This one has a pull of over five hundred pounds. It launches those darts at more than three hundred meters per second. It also doesn't produce a flash, and is almost completely silent.”
He picked up another weapon from the table. This one appeared to be a child’s toy, a simple plas handgun. Micah had seen them advertised. They were powered by a light spring and fired two-centimeter balls of paint. The Colonel picked up three balls, his exaggerated care telling Micah that they didn’t contain paint.
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