Wolf's Bane (The Empire's Corps Book 14)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Which we could spin into a major victory,” Kitty pointed out.

  Ed shook his head. The Empire’s spin doctors had been experts at turning defeats or costly victories into one-sided engagements where the enemy had been exterminated on the cheap, but the population of Avalon wasn't so easily fooled. A good third of the population had some military experience, on one side or the other. They’d know that Thule was effectively worthless these days, that the other side had withdrawn rather than stand and fight ... they’d know that the news reports were worthless. Putting out the truth, even when the truth reflected badly on the Commonwealth, was the only way to bolster confidence and trust in the long run. It would pay off, he told himself. Eventually.

  And passing laws to make it clear that reporters can be held accountable for lies, libel and endangered lives will do the rest, he thought. They’re not considered little tin gods any longer.

  “We could certainly try to convince the Wolves that Thule was a major defeat,” Kitty insisted, dryly. “It might push them to overthrow her.”

  “Too chancy,” Ed said. Beaming propaganda into the enemy’s datanets was easy enough, but it ran the same risk of overdoing it. Too many lies were easy to spot. “And besides, we’re not going to Thule.”

  “We do have the system under observation,” Kitty said. “They might just withdraw when they hear we’re coming.”

  Ed shrugged. If he’d been in command of the opposing force, he’d have left a small force to hold the high orbitals and otherwise withdrawn from Thule. The planet’s short-term value was practically nil, now the industries were gone. He suspected the Wolves had already conscripted anyone with valuable technological skills and shipped them off to Wolfbane, leaving the rest of the system alone. In the long term, Thule would blossom again, but that would take years. Admiral Singh would no doubt prefer that it didn't blossom until she emerged victorious.

  “It doesn't matter for the moment,” he said. “How long until Admiral Singh hears the news?”

  Kitty tapped a switch, displaying a holographic starchart over her desk. An expanding sphere, centred on Avalon, appeared in front of them. Ed leaned forward, silently assessing the situation. It looked unchanged, but he knew that looks could be deceiving. There was no way to track the war in real time.

  “It’s been two weeks since we started spreading the rumours,” Kitty said. “Assuming they were picked up at once, and they should have been, word might be reaching the edge of enemy space by now. Hannalore’s message was sent a few days later. I’d be fairly sure Admiral Singh will get the message in two to three weeks. They’re using converted courier boats as spies.”

  Ed nodded in annoyance. Wolfbane had had a very definite advantage, although it had taken him some time to realise it. Governor Brown had had a small fleet of courier boats under his direct control, a fleet Admiral Singh had inherited. They were tiny ships, nothing more than phase drives with a cockpit attached, but they were fast, easily twice as fast in FTL as anything else. Admiral Singh could get word back from the front - and send out orders - faster than anyone else.

  And she would know better than to rely on it, he thought, sourly. She actually earned her rank. She’d understand the dangers of trying to micromanage from a distance.

  He ground his teeth. Long-distance micromanagement was always a disaster waiting to happen - the Grand Senate had proved that often enough - but Admiral Singh was closer to the war front than the Grand Senate had ever been. She could get her orders out to the front quicker than the Grand Senate, then hear their responses in time to do something about it ... something that might actually be effective. She’d certainly have a much better idea of what was actually going on.

  “And then she’ll have to decide what to do,” Ed mused. “A pity we can't push her directly.”

  “No, sir,” Kitty agreed. “She would probably notice any manipulations, if we tried.”

  Ed leaned forward. “How solid is your intelligence on Wolfbane?”

  Kitty frowned. “As solid as it can be,” she said, waving her hand and dismissing the starchart. “We debriefed a number of defectors - we even debriefed a number of POWs who wanted to go into a POW camp, rather than defect. The Trade Federation has quite a few sources of its own on Wolfbane and they’ve shared what they know with us ...”

  She shrugged. “In truth, sir, we’re not mind-readers. We can make guesses at what Admiral Singh is thinking, sir; we can make guesses about her likely opponents, but they’re nothing more than guesswork. Too much depends on individual personalities, people who may know more or less than we think they know. People are generally rational in their own best interests, but we don’t know what they think to be their best interests.”

  “They may decide that Admiral Singh is a safer bet for their futures than us,” Ed said. “And they might be right.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kitty said.

  Ed silently gave her points for honesty. “And the prospects of a violent uprising?”

  “Impossible to calculate,” Kitty told him, bluntly. “We do know that life on Wolfbane is very restricted, but that was true before Governor Brown took control. The population might be discontented - it might be rebellious - yet it may be unable to translate that feeling into action. There’s a shortage of guns, it seems.”

  “And without guns, revolution is impossible,” Ed said.

  “I imagine that the corporations would try to stave off a full-scale rebellion,” Kitty said. “A long period of unrest would be very bad for business. But if the rebels got too aggressive ...”

  “They’d be squashed,” Ed said.

  “Yes, sir,” Kitty said. “Admiral Singh holds the cards - and I don’t think she’s particularly squeamish.”

  Ed nodded, grimly. He’d read Admiral Singh’s file carefully, time and time again. The Imperial Navy had always had a problem with personnel assessments - an assessment that didn't insist the officer could walk on water was damning - but, reading between the lines, it was clear that Admiral Singh had clawed her way up from almost nothing. Indeed, in many ways, she wasn't that different from Ed himself. It was quite possible that they shared an unspoken contempt for those who couldn't or wouldn't climb out of the gutter and reach for the stars. Admiral Singh might not hesitate to unleash armoured troopers on rioting mobs, with orders to kill as many as possible. She’d see it as teaching the survivors a valuable lesson.

  “Then all we can do is hope,” he said. “Jasmine and her team leave in a week, heading to Calomel. The remainder of the force will lift two weeks afterwards, spearheaded by all five platoons.”

  Kitty raised her eyebrows. “You intend to take all of the platoons?”

  “Yes,” Ed said. The CEF was good - and the Stormtroopers were coming along nicely - but the marines still had the advantage. “They’re the best we have, even now.”

  “Risky,” Kitty observed. “Can you even assemble them without setting off alarms?”

  Ed smiled. “I think so,” he said. Sneaking around Avalon galled him, but there was no alternative. The planet was under enemy observation. “Everyone knows the CEF is being redeployed, anyway.”

  “Unfortunately,” Kitty said. “But at least it will add meat to the planned attack on Thule.”

  “Yes,” Ed agreed.

  He shook his head in cold annoyance. No one had fought a real interstellar war in centuries, not since the Unification Wars. The Empire’s long string of military campaigns had been targeted on isolated worlds, not interstellar powers ... even the Carpathian Revolt had involved only five star systems, none of which could muster a real challenge to the Imperial Navy. The high cost had been caused by naval incompetence, not enemy action. But the Commonwealth was learning as it went along ...

  Too many things could go wrong, he knew. Admiral Singh might not fall for their deception - she might not even see the deception. Or she might have her own plans ... war was a democracy, after all. The enemy had a vote. She might be doing something, right now, that would und
ermine everything Ed had planned. Or someone might have assassinated her already. There was just no way to know.

  “Make sure the word keeps going out,” he said, rising. “And keep me informed.”

  “Of course, sir,” Kitty said. “We have done this before.”

  “But the stakes have never been so high,” Ed said. The Commonwealth had won a great victory, but it wasn't enough to put an end to the war. “We could still lose.”

  And having to play cloak and dagger games, he added silently, only makes it harder to focus on what’s truly important.

  Chapter Nine

  “Transit complete, Captain.”

  Captain Christopher Brookes leaned back into his command chair as Powerhouse and her comrades crossed the Phase Limit, plunging into the Trieste System. It had been a long flight from Titlark, long enough for the unexpected additions to his crew to put a strain on morale, but it was over now. He watched the in-system display gradually start to fill up, revealing the presence of seven planets and a handful of radio sources deeper into the system. There were not, as he had expected, any starships within detection range.

  He ran his hand through his brown hair, making a show of considering his next move. It wasn't as if there was any real point, but he had ambitions. And, to realise his ambitions, he had to look good as well as be good. The money he’d spent on his body - carving his face into a handsome mask - had not been wasted. People would be watching him. He could practically feel it.

  “Take us deeper into the system,” he ordered.

  “Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said.

  Christopher nodded, curtly. Trieste wasn't particularly important, not in the grand scheme of things. Stage-two colonies were rarely able to do more than shake their fists impotently when enemy starships moved through their system or took control of their high orbitals. But Trieste was a Commonwealth world and so needed to be targeted. It never seemed to have occurred to the settlers that neutrality would have been a far better option when war started looming over the sector. They’d only been spared - so far - because they didn't have anything worth taking.

  “Keep a sharp eye out for enemy ships,” Commissioner Chad Carsten said. The pudgy man looked uncomfortable on the bridge, as if he knew he had no real right to be there. His ugly appearance suited his mind. “They might be trying to ambush us.”

  “Of course,” Christopher said, blithely. The odds against being intercepted were staggeringly high. He was fairly confident that no one knew they were coming, but he’d made sure to come in on a random vector just to be certain. “If they want to catch us, Commissioner, they’ll have to work at it.”

  He kept his face expressionless with an effort as the tiny force moved deeper into the enemy system. There were rumours - all sorts of wild rumours - about what had happened at Corinthian, ranging from a minor defeat to an enemy superweapon that had obliterated the entire navy. The latter was obviously untrue, but the sudden arrival of the commissioners - and armed internal security detachments - suggested that something had gone spectacularly wrong. Christopher was fairly sure the bastard didn't have the power to override him on his own bridge, yet he had no idea if that would hold up in a court-martial. The other captains seemed inclined to bow and scrape before the commissioners rather than challenge them.

  And none of them know anything about naval operations, he thought, bitterly. It hadn't taken much questioning to prove to his own satisfaction that his commissioner had never been in the navy. Some of them haven’t been in space before.

  He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the display. Squadron command at such a young age - even if it was a brevet command that could be cancelled at any moment - would definitely look good on his file. So what if he was raiding a largely defenceless system? So what if he was commanding five light cruisers and a courier boat? It was a chance to make a mark, to prove to Admiral Singh that he could handle something more than a single warship in a squadron. If he was lucky, it would get him promoted above his peers. Admiral Singh, unlike the Imperial Navy, knew talent when she saw it. God knew she’d had enough problems with backstabbing superiors in her life.

  And then I can try to grasp a heavy cruiser or even a battleship, he thought. He’d heard rumours, too, of new battleships coming out of the shipyards. Modern battleships, rather than patched-up hulks. Command of one of them would practically guarantee him flag rank, within five years. And then I might have a real chance at rising even higher.

  He smiled at the commissioner as the older man turned to look at him. The bastard didn't like him, but Christopher didn't care. He turned up the wattage of his smile, enjoying the faint displeasure on the commissioner’s face. An enemy like that was a badge of honour. Let him sit on the bridge and scowl disapprovingly at the crew, if he wished. Admiral Singh would pay as little attention to him as she paid to supply bureaucrats who didn't seem to understand their true role in life. Christopher was a naval hero and the commissioner ... was just a commissioner.

  Better win the engagement first, he reminded himself, sharply. The hours were ticking by slowly, too slowly. There’s nothing to be gained by gloating too soon.

  “Captain,” the sensor officer said. She was young, so young that she didn't remember the Imperial Navy, but she was good. The cynical side of Christopher’s mind insisted that the two facts were connected. “Long-range scans are revealing the presence of two stations orbiting the planet. They both appear to be standard colony support units.”

  Christopher nodded, concealing his displeasure. It was possible, he supposed, that the Commonwealth had bolted missile tubes or energy weapons to the orbital stations, but even if they had they wouldn't pose any real threat. The stations could neither run nor hide. Their crews were probably hastily evacuating even now, launching lifepods before his ships entered missile range. He wouldn't blame them, either. Staying on their stations would mean certain death.

  “Communications, transmit a warning message,” he ordered. “Inform them that we will destroy their stations in” - he glanced at the display - “forty minutes. They have that long to evacuate.”

  “Aye, sir,” the communications officer said.

  The commissioner turned to face Christopher. “Are you warning them to evacuate?”

  “Yes,” Christopher said, resisting the urge to insult the idiot openly. He was on the damn bridge! Was there some confusion about his orders? “There’s nothing to be gained by slaughtering the station crews.”

  “They might be technical experts,” the commissioner pointed out. “We have standing orders to conscript all technical specialists wherever we find them.”

  “They’ll have started to evacuate already,” Christopher said. It was possible, he supposed, that the locals had missed his squadron, but he knew better than to count on it. The Commonwealth’s sensors were alarmingly good. “And even if we did take them with us, could they be trusted?”

  He ignored the commissioner’s spluttering as he turned back to the display. The stations were launching lifepods, dropping them into the planet’s atmosphere. Their crews would have a bumpy ride and a worse landing, but at least they’d be alive. Trieste wouldn't be too badly hurt by their visit, if only because they had nothing of any particular value. The colony world would probably be left alone afterwards.

  “Entering missile range, sir,” the tactical officer said.

  “Take them out,” Christopher ordered.

  He watched, feeling a flicker of irritated frustration, as the two missiles lanced towards their targets. There was no counterbattery fire, nothing to slow them down; the warheads slammed home, detonating a moment later. Pieces of debris, none of them large enough to survive their passage through the atmosphere, rocketed in all directions. Trieste’s government would have some work to do, clearing up the mess, once the war was over. Or maybe the Consortium would just divert a pair of warships to use the debris for target practice.

  “Both targets destroyed, sir,” the tactical officer reported.
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br />   “Good shooting,” Christopher said, grudgingly. He had no doubt that the media would turn the raid into a staggering victory, but anyone who knew anything about naval affairs would not be fooled. Blowing up two stations wouldn't make a difference and he knew it. And there was nothing on Trieste worth the effort of bombing. “Helm, take us out on our planned vector.”

  “Aye, sir,” the helmsman said.

  Christopher scowled at the commissioner’s back as the older man strode across the bridge, his gaze flickering over consoles as if he knew what the displays actually meant. They might as well have been glittering lights, Christopher suspected. He’d heard whispered stories of commissioners who’d pressed the wrong buttons and accidentally blown up entire starships, although he was sure they were exaggerated. Triggering the self-destruct device wasn't that easy. But ...