by Jay Allan
“Tyler, welcome.” A tall man called softly from a booth in the corner, waving for him to come over. He had a companion seated next to him, but Barron couldn’t get a look at the man’s face. “I want to thank you for meeting me here. I know it’s an…irregular…place for such a conference, and I appreciate your indulgence.” The man stood up and took a few steps from the table, leaning in toward Barron and whispering, “Please excuse my familiarity, but I would prefer to keep rank and military status under wraps, if possible. I’m Gary.”
Barron took the hand Holsten offered, and he shook it briefly. “I’m pleased to meet you, Gary. I find it a bit surprising we’ve never encountered each other before.”
“That’s true, though I don’t believe you spend much time on business pursuits. I’ve met several of your cousins, but I can’t say I know them well. I hope the peripheral members of your clan are less dissolute and useless than mine.”
“I don’t see too much of my relatives, Mr…Gary. As you said, I don’t focus much attention on the Barron financial investments. The demands of the service, and all.” Barron was less than proud of some branches of his family, as much, he suspected, as Holsten clearly was of his own, but discussing such topics made him uncomfortable. In truth, he hardly knew most of his cousins, but he still felt a vague sense of family loyalty. And he was sure of one thing…Holsten hadn’t called him there to commiserate about black sheep relatives. “So, how can I be of assistance to you, Gary?” He tried to be gentle about pushing the conversation back on topic, but after he spoke, he was afraid it had come out a bit abrupt.
“I heard you were no nonsense. I see that’s true. So, I’ll take your lead. Let’s not waste any more time.” He gestured toward the table. “Please have a seat.”
Barron glanced at the faded red leather of the booth. He felt a hesitancy to touch it, a flash of his own slight fastidiousness, but he pushed it aside and sat down. He tried to slide over, to make room for Holsten, but the leather was coated with years’ worth of tacky residue, and he had to shove harder to get any movement at all. He tried to keep the look of disgust from his face, but he wasn’t sure he’d quite pulled it off.
“I must say, Gary, this isn’t in line with what I’d heard about your tastes.” The young patriarch of the Holsten empire was known for his extravagant lifestyle, and his relentless pursuit of every supermodel—and half the attractive married women—in the capital. Barron didn’t judge. He’d been somewhat of a ladies’ man himself, though the responsibilities that came with the command of a frontline battleship had dulled his ardor somewhat, even before the outbreak of war. He’d become quieter since he’d become Dauntless’s captain, more prone to spending his free time alone, reading…or just enjoying the quiet. Still, he had to admit a touch of admiration for Holsten’s abilities to juggle both the burdens of the Confederation’s spy agency and the needs of an apparently endless parade of beautiful women.
“Well, Tyler, let’s just say that some of my reputation exists because it is useful to me…and all this establishment lacks in, well, shall we say, the finer things, it more than makes up for in discretion. We are not likely to be disturbed—or overheard—here. Most of our neighbors frequent the bar for quiet assignations or petty smuggling transactions, and they are more concerned with not being noticed than with paying attention to what others discuss. That serves our purpose well.”
“What is our pur…” Barron turned and looked across the table, and as soon as his eyes focused on the other man, he fell silent for an instant. “Admir…”
The third conspirator held up his hand. “Please, Tyler. I’m also relying on the discretion Gary assured me this…establishment…offers. It will serve our purposes well, I believe. Call me Van.”
Barron hesitated, caught between surprise at the whole situation and discomfort at calling the officer in command of the Confederation’s combined fleets by his first name. At least the intelligence chief was outside the normal chain of command, but calling the top admiral “Van” felt disrespectful, invitation or no.
He’d been nervous before, wondering what scheme Holsten wanted to sell him, but Admiral Striker’s presence had just escalated the whole thing. It was not only likely vastly more important than he’d expected, but any chance he’d had of saying “no” was also gone. They could speak as informally as they wanted, but anything that came out of Striker’s mouth was an order as far as Barron was concerned. “Very well, Van,” he managed to say softly, not entirely successful at hiding his discomfort.
“We have something we want to discuss with you, Tyler. We’ve received some disturbing news about Union activity, and while we have no confirmation our source is reliable, it’s not something we can afford to ignore.”
“Are they planning another offensive?” There was surprise in Barron’s voice. Since Dauntless had withdrawn for repairs, there had been a few small battles on the front lines, but for the most part, the front had been quiet.
“No, Tyler. It has nothing to do with the front. As far as we are able to tell, things there are static, and are likely to remain so for at least the near future. Neither side has the strength to mount a major attack, nor the supply capability to sustain it if it succeeds.”
“Then, if I may ask, what could you possibly want me to do that would require such secrecy?”
The two men exchanged glances, and then Holsten looked back toward Barron. “Have you wondered why Dauntless was assigned to Dannith for repairs, Tyler?”
Barron returned Holsten’s gaze, a look of dawning realization on his face. “It occurred to me that it was somewhat out of the way, but with the Confederation on a war footing, I just assumed it was the only base that had capacity. We were sent to Archellia last time, after all, and that’s even farther out.”
“That’s true, but unfortunately, we’ve had many ships destroyed outright since Dauntless was bumped to Archellia. Shipyard capacity is not the limiting factor on refit schedules now, Captain, a state of affairs you no doubt have deduced for yourself.”
“You’re saying that you deliberately ordered us to Dannith?”
“Yes, Tyler. That is precisely what I am saying. You are here because I selected you and your crew, and Admiral Striker concurred. Though when we made that decision, we only suspected we would need you here, based on fairly thin evidence. Now, we know…or at least we know with enough certainty to demand immediate action.”
“Know what? What is it you want me to do?”
“You have served in the Badlands before, Tyler, have you not?” Striker was speaking now.
“Yes, sir…Van. My second assignment was aboard Hydra. We did a year’s patrol duty in the near Badlands. But I suspect you know that already.”
“Yes, we do.” It was Holsten this time. He took a nonchalant glance around the room, confirming that no one had any undue interest in the conversation the three men were having. “Hydra spent most of that time patrolling the Restricted Zones. You had several encounters with poachers and smugglers.”
“Yes, we did. We confiscated some old tech, but it was nothing all that rare. Nothing that seems important enough to bring me here now.”
“You are correct, to a point. We didn’t bring you here to chase after old tech trinkets, nor to hunt down unauthorized archeological activity. However, your experience, and your track record of service in the Badlands—as well as your overall performance history and the level of reliability and tactical capability you have shown—were central to our decision. Even the fact that you’ve had encounters with poachers is useful.” Holsten paused. “There’s something going on in the Badlands, Tyler, something we fear could impact the course of the war. We need you to go in, to find out if we are right…and if we are, to put a stop to it.”
“Find what? Put a stop to what? And what do poachers have to do with this?”
“You mentioned yourself that most of the artifacts found in the Badlands are either small items or scraps from larger ones. Have you ever considered the i
mplications if something more significant was discovered? An ancient weapon, for example…one that may still be operable.”
Barron felt a tightness in his gut. He’d have disregarded such talk as rumor and gossip if he’d heard it anywhere else. But the navy’s ranking admiral and the head of Confederation Intelligence hadn’t brought him here because of vague spacers’ tales. “That would depend on the specifics, but I’m inclined to think if one side found and deployed such technology, the impact on the war would be…significant.”
“And if the weapon in question was one created during the final stages of the Cataclysm?”
Barron looked back across the table, wordless at first. Finally, he just said, “It would be a disaster if the Union to gain control of such a weapon. Even if they only had one, if it was beyond their ability to replicate it, such a resource would easily tip the war in their favor. If they were able to replicate it, all space in this sector would fall to them.”
“You agree with our assessments.” Holsten slid a small data chip across the table. “This is a copy of…for lack of a better term, let’s call it a treasure map. It was sold to a Union agent…one my people were unfortunately unable to apprehend in time to prevent the transmission of the data. We must therefore assume that Sector Nine has the map, and that they have already dispatched teams to recover the artifact.”
Barron reached out and put his hand over the data chip, sliding it across the table and putting it unobtrusively in his pocket. “You want Dauntless to go after this artifact?”
“Simply put, yes.”
“Isn’t that a violation of the Abandoned Zone Treaty? I thought warships over a certain tonnage were forbidden to enter the zone.”
“It is a blatant violation. One I suspect the Union has already committed.”
“I don’t take the violation of international law any more lightly than you do, Tyler,” Striker interjected after Holsten had spoken. “But some things are more important to me…things like saving the Confederation from utter destruction, for example.”
“Do you believe the situation is really that serious?” Barron was still trying to decide if he thought the whole thing was an overblown panic…or the greatest threat the Confederation had ever faced.
“I do,” the admiral replied. “Or, let me say more specifically, I believe we may face an almost incalculable danger. We cannot be sure this data is accurate, but neither can we afford to simply assume it’s a fraud. The consequences of the Union obtaining such a weapon are simply too catastrophic.”
“I must agree with Van,” Holsten said softly. “If we are wrong—and we are caught—we risk considerable international condemnation. If we’re right, and we do nothing, we face utter and complete defeat. We simply can’t afford to wait.”
“We want you to take Dauntless into the Badlands, Tyler, to the system specified on the map we have provided you. Once there, you will explore every centimeter of the space around the designated planet, and you will confirm if there is indeed a significant ancient spaceship present there.” Striker’s eyes were fixed on Barron’s as he spoke. “And if you encounter Union forces, you are to prevent them from gaining possession of the artifact…whatever it takes.” The admiral paused. “Will you accept the mission?”
“Of course, sir…Van.”
“This is not an order, Tyler…it’s a request. Had we known all we do now, we would have pulled more ships back from the line, organized a whole fleet to investigate. But there’s no time now. We’ve already waited too long.” Striker’s voice was strained. It was clear he hated sending Barron and Dauntless into the Badlands alone. “This could be like Santis all over again, Tyler. Your people will be on their own, far from any support. Though this time you may end up facing more than one enemy ship.” He paused again, and when he continued his voice was softer, more subdued. “And you must keep the enemy from gaining control of the artifact.”
He thinks he’s sending us on a suicide mission. But he doesn’t know just how hard it is to kill Dauntless and her crew. And he has no idea just how much tougher an Alliance ship under a captain like Katrine Rigellus is than the typical Union line ship…
“I accept.” As you knew I would.
“Very well, Tyler. Godspeed. Dauntless will be released from spacedock in four hours. I expedited her repairs, but I’m afraid we had to cut the manifest short. She’ll be fully-functional, but she’s still got some systems I would have preferred to see replaced rather than patched back together.”
“Don’t worry, si…she’s a special ship, and she’ll get the job done.”
“You’re an extraordinary group, Tyler, you and your people. And that ship of yours.” A pause. “And this could very well be the most important mission you’ve ever been on, more crucial even than your grandfather’s great struggles.”
Barron just nodded. Comparisons with his grandfather always made him uncomfortable, but he knew the admiral had meant it as nothing but a compliment.
“Your people will all receive cancellations of their leaves tonight, along with orders to report by 0700 hours base time tomorrow.” Striker looked down at the table for a few seconds. “I will make it up to them when they return, I promise. They had their last well-earned rest interrupted, and I’m sorry to see that happen to them again.”
“They’ll do their duty, as they always do.” Barron’s tone waxed with pride. He had the best crew in the fleet, he was sure of that much, and he’d have words with anyone who disagreed.
“I’m sure they will, Tyler. Now, you may go prepare. You’ll want to study the contents of that data chip tonight.”
“Yes…thank you.” He shifted, shoving himself toward the end of the booth, but then he stopped. “I still don’t understand what my experience chasing poachers has to do with it.”
“Well,” Holsten said haltingly, “you know all of this information came from intelligence sources, of course. The map came from a man who sells such…intelligence…mostly to smugglers.” He paused, flashing his eyes over toward Striker for an instant. “The source of the rest of the information on that data chip—including purported images of the actual vessel—is a crew of Badlands poachers. They’re the ones who claim to have found the ancient ship…and they insist they were driven away by a Union frigate.”
Barron stared back, trying to keep the incredulity off his face. “You mean you’re sending Dauntless into the Badlands in violation of international law on the word of a pack of smugglers?”
“Well…” Holsten looked back at Barron for a second, and then he nodded. “Yes. In a manner of speaking, at least.”
“And you feel that’s trustworthy?”
“No, not on its own, perhaps. But when you’ve had a chance to review the scanning records and physical images on the data chip, you will see why we have no choice but to take this very seriously. Their nav records confirm the location. They were deep into the Badlands, at least from our perspective, farther than any known expedition has ventured.”
“Records can be faked, can’t they? Do we have any real proof?”
Holsten looked back at Barron, but it was Striker who responded first. “No, Tyler, at least not what you mean by proof. But we’ve reviewed the data, and it appears to be reliable.” The admiral paused. “I can’t promise you it is accurate, but answer me this…if there is any chance at all that it is, can we afford to ignore it?”
Barron wasn’t completely satisfied, but he shook his head. “No…we can’t.” He paused. “If there is anything there, we’ll find it, and we’ll keep any Union forces away from it.”
“Thank you, Tyler.”
Barron just nodded. He was still uncomfortable with the notion of the admiral asking him to do something, and he took the man’s every word as a command, whether it was intended that way or not.
“Do you have any questions?” Striker asked, noting the still questioning look on Barron’s face.
Barron hesitated. Then he said softly, “Just one…if I may ask.”
“Certainly. We may not know the answer, but if we do, we will give it to you.”
“Do we have any specifics on this artifact, what kind of weapon it is? Some kind of battleship? A platform with powerful warheads? A fighter carrier of some kind?”
Striker looked over at Holsten uncomfortably, and then back toward Barron. “We have very little data of that sort, Tyler, save for one thing…” The admiral paused, clearly uncomfortable.
“We were able to decipher its name from the sketchy information we have…or at least a colloquialization of its designation.” Holsten had taken over when Striker fell silent, but now he too hesitated.
“Planetkiller,” he finally said, his voice grim enough that Barron knew immediately he believed what he was saying was true. “It was called a planetkiller.”
Chapter Seven
Union Frigate Chasseur
System Z-111 (Chrysallis)
Deep Inside the Quarantined Zone (“The Badlands”)
309 AC
“This is growing tiresome, Captain Lafarge. Your ship was docked with the battle station when we arrived. You, and your associate, Mr. Merrick, were aboard the ancient vessel. You knew your way around so well, you were able to elude pursuit for several days.” Pierre was leaning down, staring intently at Lafarge. “You could have made this easy on yourself, Captain. You could have told us what we wanted days ago. Cooperation will be rewarded…and I can assure you, continued resistance will be punished, considerably more harshly than it has been to date.”
Lafarge stared back at the Union officer, her eyes blazing with defiance. They had starved her—for nearly a week now—giving her just enough water to keep her alive. It was unpleasant, but these pukes had no idea where she’d come from. She’d known worse as a penniless orphan, and it would take more than a little hunger to break her. “I told you,” she said, her voice a little hoarse, but the tone still strong, unbeaten, “we just got there a few hours before you did. I don’t know anything about that ship, certainly nothing useful.” She’d have laughed at the irony if her situation hadn’t been so dire. She was telling the truth, but she knew they’d never believe her. And telling them she’d only managed to avoid capture for days on end because the ship was so large, and their cloned soldiers were a bunch of morons who thought like so many computers, wasn’t likely to improve their moods.