Dauntless

by Jay Allan

  Or we’ll all die.

  No, worse than that. The recall of the old crew, Barron’s reassignment to lead his old ship, the ridiculous time schedules…the outcome of the war was on the line somehow. That was the only thing that made any sense.

  “Well, Captain…I guess we’d better get started then, don’t you think?”

  He stared at the strange device in front of him, almost all his attention focused there. He had just one other thought, and though it consumed only the tiniest bit of his intellect, it was a persistent one nevertheless.

  I really should have eaten before I came here.

  * * *

  “I think that’s the plan. We get there ahead of the fleet, go through the gate alone and make a rapid course change as soon as we’re through. Once we’re in, and away from the gate, the fleet will follow. With any luck, the enemy’s attention will be fixed on Admiral Striker and the main force. We’re mostly counting on the stealth generator, but anything that takes enemy eyes off us is a good thing.” Atara Travis was leaning forward over the map table, staring intently at the layout of the Formara System, more commonly known as the “Bottleneck.”

  “I think so. We’ve looked at it ten different ways, and I think that’s it.” Barron replied, the tension in his voice clear. It was obvious Barron was edgy about the mission, especially now that he’d studied it in detail. But there was something else bothering him.

  “Atara, I was giving this some thought. Perhaps you should stay at Grimaldi. If this doesn’t work, the fleet’s going to fall back here, and Admiral Strik…”

  “Forget about it, Tyler.” Travis had never directly disobeyed one of his orders before, but this time she was adamant. “Dauntless is my ship now, and don’t you forget it. I’m just loaning you your old chair.”

  “Atara, I was just thinking…”

  “I know what you were thinking, and I love you for it, but if you’re going on this insane mission, if the whole crew is going, I’ll be damned if I’m staying behind. You’re going to need every edge you can get, and I daresay we’ve been a good team for a long time. I think we have one more in us, old friend. Don’t you?”

  Barron hesitated for a moment, and then he nodded. “I’m sorry, Atara. Of course, you should be there.”

  “Then why don’t we reinstate all our old habits, and you tell me what’s really bothering you? I know you’re worried about this mission. You’d have to be insane not to be. But that’s not all that’s on your mind…I’d bet my last credit on that.”

  Barron sighed hard, then he looked up at her. “It’s Andi. I…broke it off with her. I told her I wanted her to leave Grimaldi.”

  Travis sighed softly. “You’re a damned fool, Tyler Barron.” She held up her hand just as he looked like he was going to reply. “First, you’ve got to get this, ‘we’re not coming back’ nonsense out of your head. I’ll grant you, the odds look long, but we’ve been there before, and we’ve come back every time. This is a dangerous operation, not a suicide mission.”

  She looked right at him, her stare almost withering. “Second, whatever kind of bizarre relationship you and Andi and your collective neuroses have created, it’s pretty clear she has strong feelings for you. Have you met her, Tyler? She’s not the type to go crawling off into the sunset because you hurt her feelings. And this, ‘I’m Tyler Barron, and I’m tying up my loose ends before I go off to die’ nonsense has to stop. If you don’t think she can see through that as well as I can, you’re really blind.”

  “I just want her to be safe, Atara. If we fail, the enemy’s going to come to Grimaldi with the pulsar, and…”

  “That’s not your call, Tyler. Andromeda Lafarge has been calling her own shots since she was a child. You think she’s going to go run and hide on some Core world and nurse her wounded feelings because Tyler Barron told her to? My God, you’re like a brother to me, Tyler, but sometimes you can really be an ass.”

  Barron sat silently for a moment, and then he let out a small laugh. “I guess it’s good to have someone who won’t hesitate to tell you you’re a fool. Everybody should have one of those.”

  “Well, everybody doesn’t, so I guess you’re just one of the lucky ones.”

  “I guess so.”

  She leaned back and stretched. “I’m not much of a drinker, and I know you’re not either, but I heard there are nineteen officers’ clubs on Grimaldi. What do you say we go find one and have a couple drinks? Just two old comrades, shooting the shit, so to speak?” She smiled. “It’s on me, so there’s no threat to the Barron fortune.”

  Barron returned the smile. “You’re on. How can I say no to an old comrade?”

  * * *

  “This is the third…situation…we’ve encountered. Three Senators, all with significant financial troubles, all seeming suddenly to be quite flush. Senator Garabrant just purchased a massive estate on Megara, in the Nordlen District.”

  “That had to cost a nice chunk.” Gary Holsten looked across the table at his agent. Shane Darvin was one of his most reliable people, and he was inclined to take the agent’s concerns seriously. And he had a very clear idea of the cost of real estate in Nordlen. The Holsten family had a property there, one of more than a dozen in various locations throughout the Confederation. Holsten hadn’t been there in—what has it been, fifteen years?—but he was keenly aware of its value.

  “The transaction was complex. Garabrant made considerable effort to hide his involvement, but I was able to cut through it all. He paid fifteen million, five hundred thousand for it, and I haven’t found any hint of partners or even debt financing. My best guess is, he bought it free and clear, sir.”

  “Where did Garabrant get that kind of cash? The reprobate squandered his grandfather’s money years ago. He’s been teetering on the edge of bankruptcy for at least five years.” Holsten was well aware of Garabrant’s situation. The only thing that had kept the fool from falling into a financial abyss was Holsten’s own willingness to advance just enough cash to stave off disaster…and maintain an influence on the Senator. Holsten had IOUs and secret dossiers on many of the Senators who governed the Confederation, a resource he kept in reserve for desperate situations.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Holsten, but I knew you’d want a report immediately…and I didn’t trust the normal comm channels, even the classified ones. I didn’t want to leave Megara, but I figured it was the only choice.”

  “You did the right thing, Shane. If someone…” And someone can only mean Sector Nine. “…is manipulating the Senate, it’s wise to be cautious on communications as well. Who knows what other areas may have been infiltrated.” Holsten was frustrated. He was proud of his own agency, and he knew he had a lot of good people working for him. But Sector Nine was an amazing operation, one vastly larger than his own, with tentacles that reached…well, everywhere. The Union’s spy agency had instigated an Alliance civil war, infiltrated the Badlands border in the hunt for old tech, and now it seemed Villieneuve’s people were poking around the Confederation Senate.

  What are they up to?

  He knew politicians were corrupt, almost all of them. But he couldn’t imagine many would be ready to completely sell out the Confederation. They had good lives, and most of them were smart enough, at least, to realize they would lose all that if the Union managed to win a complete victory.

  Garabrant, Kellerman, Stilson…they’re all doves.

  He shook his head. The Senators the enemy was targeting were all highly skeptical of the war. Each of them had supported peace talks at every turn, even if the cost of ending the war was ceding systems to the Union. What is Villieneuve up to?

  “Shane, I need you to get back to Megara. Effective immediately, you are in charge of the entire operation.”

  “Operation?”

  “Yes. We’re going to expand our surveillance of the Senate. I want every Senator followed. I want all communications monitored. Where there are three, I’m willing to bet there are more. I need to know what’s happ
ening.”

  “Monitoring Senate communications? That’s illegal, sir.”

  “Yes, Shane, it is. But we’re up against an organization that has virtually no limits. Sector Nine always gets the better of us, because we’re restricted, and they can do whatever they need to do. But this time, there’s too much at stake. We can’t let them beat us again, not when they’re operating this close to the top.” Holsten paused. “I can’t promise this won’t end badly for you, Shane. It could take me down too. But I truly believe we have no choice. Are you in this with me?”

  Darvin was silent for a moment—it was probably only a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity to Holsten. Finally, the agent said, “I’m with you, sir. I understand what is at stake.” Darvin took a deep breath. “And I’ll be careful.”

  “You do that, Shane. Be careful.” Holsten extended his hand toward the agent. “Be very careful.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Formara System

  “The Bottleneck”

  Union Year 217 (313 AC)

  “I am pleased, Admiral. Your engineers are to be commended. Can I assume we are still on the original schedule?” Villieneuve glared at the officer, even as he praised him. He didn’t believe in slacking off on the pressure. Ever.

  “Thank you, sir. Yes, we are…ah…close to the original schedule.”

  “Close?” Villieneuve amused himself at how skilled he’d become at projecting menace through a single word.

  Admiral Velites was clearly intimidated, but he struggled to maintain his composure. No fewer than four senior Union admirals, commanders of the fleet, had been removed from command since the war began. Two of them—the lucky ones—had been shot. The other two had just disappeared, and Villieneuve was well aware most people imagined they vanished into some Sector Nine sub-basement. That was technically true, of course, but the two disgraced officers had been dispatched quickly and efficiently, double shots to the head for each of them after brief interrogations. They could have been terminated on their ships more easily, of course, but Villieneuve understood the benefits accrued by the fear Sector Nine projected. Watching a failed admiral executed on his bridge was certainly a powerful message to his successor, but images of torture at the hands of the dreaded intelligence agency, fictional or not, were even better.

  “Yes…Minister Villieneuve…there have been several…problems. I have addressed them all, sir, as swiftly as possible…but, I’m afraid they have pushed us back…a week.” The officer was sweating. Villieneuve watched a droplet slide from his hairline down the side of his face. “Perhaps two.”

  Villieneuve sighed. He knew all this, of course. He just wanted to squeeze everything he could from the admiral. The specter of Sector Nine might be enough to turn two weeks into ten days, and he would take anything he could get at this point. The Union was unraveling all around him, even as the massive operation to make the pulsar mobile crawled forward in Formara. The economy was in ruins, worlds were rebelling, the Presidium was restive. He’d hidden as much of it as he could from his comrades on that august body, but there was a limit to the level of disinformation even he could spread. There was no time to lose. He had to win the war, and he had to do it now.

  “See that it is not two, Admiral.” He softened his voice. He knew the power of fear, but he was also well aware it could go too far. Reducing Admiral Velites to a quivering lump wouldn’t serve his purpose either.

  “Yes, sir. I will do everything poss…I will get it done.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear, Admiral. Dismissed.”

  Villieneuve watched as Velites saluted and then scuttled away. The admiral’s near-desperation to get out of Villieneuve’s presence amused the spymaster. He wasn’t sure Velites had the skill or the intelligence he’d have liked to see in his top commander, but he was sure the officer would do everything in his power to avoid failing him. Fear, properly executed, was as much a resource as any other, perhaps even the most useful of all.

  He turned and looked through the clear hyper-plastic of the observation deck’s hull. He liked this spot. He could only see a few of the fleet’s ships from where he stood, and he had a thousand times more data at his fingertips in his office or the control center. But there was something about looking at the actual hardware that would fight the campaign that pleased him. He couldn’t see the pulsar from where he stood, but he knew it was out there. Once the work was done on the engines that would drive the weapon forward, the crews would remove the massive superstructures that held it in place. Then, he would form up the fleet, every useful bit of might the Union had left. He’d have preferred to wait for the enemy to attack, but there simply wasn’t time. If the war wasn’t won—and soon—the enemy wouldn’t even have to defeat the Union. It would fall to pieces from the inside.

  He was frustrated, and surprised at how difficult it had been to defeat a power with a weaker military, but one with an economic capacity the Union couldn’t hope to match. He’d been concerned at the outset, when the decision to invade had been finalized, but he had to admit to himself, he’d been surprised at just how hard the Confeds had fought and how many ships their many industrial worlds had produced.

  Oddly, though the last chance to win the war lay firmly in his own hands, he hadn’t been one of the Presidium members heavily in favor of launching the attack on the Confederation. He was as aware of anyone else of the disparity in the two economies, the growing problem it represented, and how the Union lost ground with each passing year. There had been strong arguments for war, but he’d been troubled by the failure of the last three conflicts to crush the enemy. None since the first had even been anything close to a victory, and the second had been an outright defeat no matter how much spin was applied to the retelling.

  On one level, Villieneuve regretted his acquiescence then, his reluctant decision to support the war party. But even now, after all that had happened, he wasn’t sure what else he could have done. If it hadn’t been for the softness of the Confederation’s population, and their voluntary disarmaments after each war, the enemy would have been out of reach already. There hadn’t been any real choice. The Union had to expand. It needed resources from conquered planets to sustain its own stumbling economy, and the Confederation had the needed worlds. Villieneuve wasn’t sure postponing the showdown would have accomplished anything but increasing the relative power of the Confeds.

  But this was the last chance for a military victory. He had his operatives working on a peace initiative as a failsafe, but he wasn’t sure that would be enough, especially if the Confeds discovered just how dire the situation was in the Union. Without an outright victory, the Union could split apart, as world after world rebelled against the central authority. Even the fear of Sector Nine had a limited effect when starvation was the alternative.

  He’d sent agents to the far Rim, to stir up trouble for the Alliance, to attempt to draw away the Confeds’ new ally, but that was only a stopgap. He had to make this campaign a success. He had to drive forward, crush the enemy fleets, and bring the superweapon to Megara itself, or at least as deep into the Confederation as he could. Then he could salvage the disaster the war had become.

  * * *

  “That was good, Commander, but there is still room for improvement. Advise all squadron commanders, I want thirty seconds shaved off their scramble times.” Jean Turenne’s voice was deep, his tone demanding. Turenne ran a tight ship, and he demanded the same effort from his crew that he always gave himself. That had been difficult at first, when his people were used to a more common Union standard of conduct, but they’d begun to adapt, and even to show some growing pride in themselves.

  “Yes, sir.” Michel Maramont was Turenne’s exec. He’d been fairly typical of mid-level Union officers before Turenne arrived, but the demanding CO had pulled the best from within, and Maramont had grown into an effective and capable first officer.

  Turenne sat in Temeraire’s command chair, staring across the bridge toward his second-in-
command. He was bolt upright, looking almost as though he were at attention in his seat. He was aware how uncomfortable it seemed, but it had little to do with his rigid and demanding attitudes. It was the only way he could keep the pain in his back at bay. He’d been wounded in the first battle of the war, and he’d been two years recovering before he’d gotten back into the fight.

  His family was a fairly highly placed one, which had aided in getting him the best care available. A first officer in the fleet, which was what he’d been at the time, had a fairly high medical priority rating even without family influence, but not enough to justify two years of specialists and surgeries. His father had pulled some strings, and against all odds—and the predictions of his original doctors—Turenne had returned to duty, along with a promotion to his own command.

  His recovery had been miraculous, but it was far from complete. He had at least some pain virtually all the time, and if he slouched at all for any extended period, it was agonizing. But he’d always been tough, and he’d learned to endure, even to excel…his own kind of personal spite at the pain.

  He’d made the most of his second chance, and the advance in rank that came with it. Turenne had chafed at the losses the navy had suffered, at the way the Confederation forces consistently outperformed the Union fleets. Confed tech was a bit better, and their ships were generally of higher quality, side effects of their economic advantage. But Turenne saw no reason Union spacers had to be inferior to their enemies, and he’d driven his own crew almost to exhaustion, until they operated like razors. Temeraire was the best ship in the fleet now, he was sure of that, and one of the few bright spots among Union arms in the war. He’d put Temeraire against any ship the Confeds cared to throw his way, and he was confident his people would come out on top.