He Who Dares: Book Three

by Rob Buckman

  “Christ almighty! What the hell are we going to do?” The PM asked at last. Visions of being the first president of Earth fading fast. With the way things stood with the military and the local population, he couldn’t do a “Cromwell” on them and declare himself president.

  Even if the Sirriens held up their end of the bargain, there was no guarantee he’d be Prime Minister when it happened. If he wasn’t, someone else would end up in that position. Someone from the Tory side of parliament. There was no way the Sirriens would put him back in power. Why should they? He’d assured them that their takeover of Earth would be unopposed by the people. Without him at the helm, there was no way of knowing which way the people would jump. It was a mess, all because the bloody King chose this moment to dig his heels in and refuse to sign the laws parliament had passed. On top of that, his one strong arm, MI5, and the other intelligence services were no longer under his control. He shuddered to think how far the sweep of the new bosses up there in Whitehall would go, or how deep they would dig. Come to that, he didn’t even know who ran the Secret Service now. Maybe it was time for the Sirrien agents to take a more active role, and get rid of a few people permanently.

  * * * * * *

  As John Cromwell stopped before entering the steam room, much as he’d done a hundred times before, and checked the security monitor before entering. Even with advances in electronics, today’s latest models couldn’t stand up long in the constant high heat, humidity and the water soaked environment of a steam sauna. Wearing nothing but a cotton singlet, shorts and flip-flops, he looked nothing like his usual urbane self. Upon entering, he found the King taking his ease on the wooden bench on the second tier. Even to his eye, as calm looking as the King was, he could see the stress lines on his face. Particularly around the eyes and mouth. At seventy-two years old, the King was a powerfully built man, vigorous, healthy with very little fat or sagging skin prevalent in older men.

  “All clear, your Majesty.” The King nodded and patted the bench beside him. He was similarly dressed in a cotton singlet and white shorts.

  This room was about as safe and bug free as any room in Windsor Castle could be. Situated as it was under the castle itself, they were surrounded by the solid brick and stone of the original foundations that dated back to the extensive rebuilding of Windsor between 1165 and 1179. John Cromwell had himself installed a bug detector and dampening field adding an additional layer of security to its natural defenses. With all the lights in the green, the possibility of anyone listening in or video spying on them was minimal. Even the clothes they were wearing were subject to a microwave treatment before they put them on ensuring they didn’t inadvertently bring something in with them. The King smiled at his friend.

  “When we first met, John, before you found out who I was, did you ever imagine you’d end up in a place like this?”

  “You mean an overly hot, steamy room wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a singlet?” He chuckled, but knew what the King meant.

  “Funny how life can take you by surprise isn’t it.” The King murmured.

  John Cromwell smiled. “Yes, I never imagined I’d end up here. I remember the first time I met you, a 10-year-old, scared, skinny lad who didn’t seem to know where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.” John sighed, thinking back to those happier days as schoolboys. The only thing they’d had to worry about then was passing their exams and not getting caught sneaking out of school to go play in the woods.

  “Easier times, then, John.” John nodded.

  “Simpler times as well, I think, before the world went to hell in a hand basket.”

  “Yes, once we got out of our home system, it was inevitable each country would grab as much real estate as they could.”

  “Not to mention the corporations.” John added with a sigh.

  “Not much we could do, really. We couldn’t police all of human space, no matter how big our navy was.”

  “I hate the idea that slavery came back so easily.” John grumbled.

  “Not that they call it that. Migrant works is the euphemism they use, slavery in all but name.”

  “I hate to imagine the hell hole those industrial planets have become.”

  “We are as much to blame as the corporations, John. The multi-stellar corporations here import all the ship parts, fusion reactors, engines, and what have you, and install them in the ships they build.”

  “Not to mention the food and luxury good they import.”

  “I wonder if Michael Gray’s idea of the crown taking more control of the government might not be such a bad idea. At least we could draft bills to outlaw any kind of servitude.”

  “Did we ever get rid of slavery? We now call it human trafficking, as if that’s a better turn for forcing people into a miserable existence.”

  “True, John. Slavery had been with us over the years in one form or another. We just cover it up with politically correct words and form a comity to look into it.” The king’s laugh had anything but humor in it.

  “Not that it would do us much good in the long run. The Corporations are outside our jurisdiction, and most are sovereign star systems of their own, with their own fleet of warships to protect them. No real way to police them”

  “Well, we did our best to hold it all together, didn’t we John?”

  “That we did, sir that we did.”

  “John, will you please, just for once, stop calling me, sir, your majesty, and any other bloody title?” John Cromwell chuckled.

  “Yes, Richard, I can do that.” The King blew his cheeks out.

  “I remember you magically appearing out of thin air, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me to your… our dorm room, and, yes, I was scared damn it.”

  “Not for long.” John bumped his should against the King’s.

  “Oh, you mean those two idiots who picked on you at the sweet shop.” He smiled at the memory. “Just because you didn’t have enough money for a spice bun and a drink.” The King shook his head.

  “Well, I’m not sure beating the shit out of them for calling me a ragamuffin was the best course of action.”

  “Still no reason to call you that even if your family wasn’t as well off as theirs.” The King nodded, thinking about how unjust it was to belittle someone just for the pleasure of picking on them. Especially someone smaller who couldn’t fight back. Injustice was something he felt deeply about. Between the two of them, they’d delivered an object lesson to other would-be bullies. Now they knew that Cromwell and company meant business.

  “I still say I should have been the one to take the caning, not you.” John murmured.

  “Water under the bridge. You were there when I needed it, and still are, though god knows why.” The King looked at his friend, and he was, in the truest sense of the word. “There is an old saying. Not sure where it comes from, but they say a friend is someone who’ll help you carry out the body, a true friend will help you bury it.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that one.”

  “You are both, John.” This time, the King bumped his shoulder against John Cromwell’s. “Now I have to ask you to help me bury one more body.” John turned his head slowly to look at his friend.

  “Whose, and where do you want to bury it?” He asked.

  “The body I want to bury is yours, and for the first time since we’ve known each other. I’m going to order you to do something.” A puzzled frown crossed John Cromwell’s face. “I say order, since if I asked, you’d say no.”

  “Would I?”

  “Yes, you would. So I’m making this a royal command.” John stiffened. In all the years, they’d known each other, the King, his King, had never ordered him to do anything.

  “I have the feeling I’m not going to like this.”

  “You are going to hate it and try to figure a way out of obeying me. Please don’t, John.” John let out a long sigh, because that’s exactly what he was trying to do even before he knew what he was going to be asked to do.

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p; “Go on.” He said, very softly.

  “You and I both know that the center will not hold. The Sirriens are gradually putting a strangle hold on this system. Trade is already falling off, and the only reason the Sirriens haven’t closed us off completely, as they have so many other star systems, is because of that damned Cg material and the ship parts we turn out. But, one of these days they are going to send a massive fleet in-system to take this world and grab the secret of Cg material for themselves.” His shoulders slumped. “The Royal Navy is in no position to stop them in their present condition.”

  “Yes, worn out ships, an officer corps we can’t trust not to turn tail or simply go over to the enemy.” John added.

  “True and you know as well as I do, that once they take the high ground we won’t have any option but to surrender.” John nodded.

  “A few ‘messages from god’ in strategic places, or a city or two and we’d have to give up.”

  “I sometimes wish we’d never make that damn stuff a secret. Maybe if everyone knew how to make Cg material, we wouldn’t be in the mess we are now.” The king muttered.

  “True, but there it is. We live with what we’ve got, and surrender and make the best deal we can with the Sirriens.”

  “That’s of course, unless that bloody pig of a man, the Prime Minister hasn’t already made a deal with the bastards.”

  “That’s a good bet.” John added, moodily. “So, what do you want me to do? Kill the stupid ass?”

  “Good god, no!” The King smiled, betting with himself that John Cromwell would have no compunction about doing just that, and damn the consequences. “I was thinking that there are a few rather important items and documents I don’t want the Sirriens to get their grubby hands on.”

  “I follow so far, Richard.”

  “My royal command is that you take them and go along to keep them safe.” John Cromwell shot to his feet and stomped back and forth the length of the steam room, for once scowling at his King.

  He stopped several times and looked at his monarch and friend, even opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and stomped back and forth again. The King wiped his sweaty face with a towel and waited patiently for John to reach the end of his scheming to try and figure out a way to disobey him.

  “Damn you to hell, Richard. Why did you have to make it…” He couldn’t finish. “Yes, your Majesty. I will obey your royal command.” As he sat down beside him again, the King reached over and squeezed his shoulder.

  “The body I want you to bury is yours. I’m going to give you a very nice private funeral. Lots of flowers and all that.”

  “What! I mean, pardon?”

  “Well, think about it. If you are nicely dead, no one will be looking for you, especially any Sirrien spies lurking about in the bushes.” He smiled, seeing the light dawn in John Cromwell’s eyes.

  “Of course. Out of sight, out of mind. Um… by the way, how am I going to die? I’d rather do it with a little dignity, or better still heroically?” The King chuckled and shook his head.

  “Sorry, no, you’ll break your neck going down the stairs to the wine cellar.” He laughed.

  “Oh, thanks. The drunken snot slipped and broke his neck while going for another bottle of bloody wine.”

  “Thought you’d thank me. I mean, everyone knows what a secret drunk you are.”

  “Har! Adding insult to injury before I’m decently buried, are we?”

  The King chuckled again, “I take it you have an identity you haven’t used yet?”

  “Several.”

  “Good. As soon as we have arranged things, and your untimely passing is announced, I expect you to be on your way to the stars.”

  “And my ultimate destination being?” John queried with a raised eyebrow.

  “Avalon.”

  “Avalon? Why there?”

  “Many reasons, the first being that they are the only ones I trust with what I’m sending. It could also be the center of a new beginning.” John gave him an appraising look.

  “You think they have the wherewithal to fight the Sirriens or hold off an invasion fleet?”

  “John, you know as well as I do that they are probably the only ones that can.”

  John nodded. “Yes, damn difficult to get across the Rift. Not impossible if you are willing to take the losses, but what then?”

  “Oh, they have more than enough to handle anything that gets into Avalon-Christchurch space.” John Cromwell thought he knew all the secrets, but it was clear that the King knew a few that he didn’t. “It’s all a matter of timing and whether we’ve already left it too late.” On that ominous note, they left to take a shower and dress for the King’s normal daily round of meetings.

  CHAPTER THREE:

  It was with a certain degree of trepidation, that Admiral of the Fleet Sir Anthony Rawlings stepped off his transport, a fully armed, class 60 assault shuttle euphemistically called the ‘Admirals Barge’ and saluted the flag. The boatswain’s pipe shrilled and the sideboys came to attention to render honors as he stepped out to greet the waiting officers. His flag officer, Rolly Vargas, stepped out after him, feeling equally apprehensive. With all the sudden unexpected deaths of important people from untimely or unfortunate accidents to suicides, it wouldn’t surprise him to have a shuttlecraft or cargo truck, suddenly appear out of nowhere and kill them both. The secret war going on behind the scenes between who knows who was starting to take its toll. A fine, upstanding officer in the peak of health could suddenly keel over with a heart attack or stroke or discover that he really couldn’t breathe vacuum when a safety interlock unexpectedly failed on an outside hatch.

  Rolly breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped out behind the admiral, thankful to be back aboard the flagship after Admiral Rawlings’ meeting with the inappropriately named First Sea Lord. Even after a month of “posting” several questionable officers and crew to shore stations, he felt reasonably safe here, but you never knew if you’d got all the potential trouble makers until you felt the knife slip in under your ribs, metaphorically speaking. Thankfully, the rot was mostly confined to naval personnel, rather than the Marines, but when asked, the Marine commander suggested that one or two of his people might find a healthier environment in a ground based unit. After due ceremony, they made their way up to the admiral’s quarters, with the captain and the XO accompanying them.

  “By the way, Rolly,” Captain MacAndrews commented over his shoulder. “Just got a message back to say your flowers did arrive, but haven’t been delivered yet.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Much obliged.” It wasn’t until they were within the security perimeter of the Admiral’s quarters that Admiral Rawlings said anything.

  “Glad to hear the ‘flowers’ arrived.”

  “Yes, sir. I just hope my grandmother picks them up.” Rolly murmured, making it sound like an offhanded comment.

  “I do hope she picks them up before they wilt.” They both looked at each other.

  “True, sir, but there’s no telling if, or when, she’ll be back from her holiday.” Admiral Rawlings nodded and looked at Captain MacAndews.

  “What’s the status of our new ship’s operating system, Andy?”

  “Well in hand, sir. We did install it, per instructions from the Admiralty, and we are in the process of systems ‘testing’, per your instructions.

  “Thank goodness for that. We wouldn’t want anything untoward happening if we suddenly had to go into combat, now would we?” The bleak smile on the admiral’s face said volumes. Mike’s warning after the trouble he’d had with his own operating system hadn’t come a moment too soon.

  The chief electronics engineer had installed it per instructions. He’d also installed another program first. Even as the new operating system unfolded and unpacked itself and began running, the first program was there to intercept it. As each segment found its way to the subroutine buffers that ran everything from the fusion reactor to the weapons and shield systems, it was wiped. From the outsid
e, or to anyone who checked, it would look as if the infected program had successfully installed itself. The final option if all else failed was to go to combat failsafe mode where each system disengaged itself from the mainframe and went to manual as if the mainframe had been taken out due to battle damage. It was cumbersome, and they wouldn’t have anywhere near the maneuverability, but she could keep on fighting. Hopefully, his trustworthy captains had also performed a similar function on their ships. At least that would give him a core fighting unit. Now all the admiral had to do was rearrange the fleet to keep those ships close.

  * * * * * *

  While the political turmoil on Earth grew, Mike and the crew of the Nemesis cruised in-system from the Pluto warp point blissfully unaware of the powder keg they were about to fly into. While sitting in his cabin or standing watch on the bridge, Mike couldn’t stop thinking about the alien ship. Pondering the implications of what he’d seen inside started to border on an obsession. And many times someone had to ask him a question twice before he answered. The ship was a puzzle he had to solve. It wasn’t just the super-advanced technology, the lab techs and the eggheads would figure that out eventually. No, it was the sheer size of the ship, and all those empty spaces that kept him up at night. He’d run the unedited videos taken inside by his crew over and over again looking for some point he’d missed. Sometimes the answer to the nagging question was right there, just out of reach in his mind. And yet, he wasn’t even sure what the question was. Even for all her size, much of the internal structure consisted of massive compartments, empty save for some odd equipment here and there about the compartment, and showed no signs of what they were used for. He did query the “bot” for a schematic of the ship, but that didn’t help, it only deepened the mystery. When asked, the bot could give little information on what the compartments were used for, other than to say, “Auxiliary storage.” Or something equally incomprehensible.