Dauntless

by Jay Allan

  But success inevitably bred expansion. As he became more and more successful, Villieneuve had begun to tap him for more assignments, missions outside his core competency of killing. Lille fancied himself among the very best at his curious trade, but he was no spy. Still, Villieneuve had become more and more desperate as the war went on, and he’d come to Lille for aid, to take on missions such as his disastrous foray to the Alliance.

  Lille had reluctantly accepted the assignments—and he still felt, if he’d had a bit less bad luck he might have prevailed—and the resulting failures had begun to poison his relationship with Villieneuve.

  He’d considered killing his mentor. He had no animosity toward Villieneuve, but his most recent failure at Barroux was almost certain to bring the spymaster’s wrath down upon him. Striking first had been the only option that came to his mind.

  At least before he’d decided to kill the Presidium.

  The thought was still a strange one, a task so herculean in nature, so utterly outrageous, it was hard to wrap his head around it. The supreme council that ruled the Union had seen its share of assassinations, singly, and usually with the cooperation or consent of a good number of the other members. But for an outsider to kill not, one, but all of them, was unprecedented.

  It would be a masterpiece for a man who loved killing over all things.

  And it would leave Villieneuve in unquestioned control of the government…and deeply in Lille’s debt. Certainly enough to wash away his recent failures.

  Lille had pondered ways to accomplish the mission. The biggest issue was killing them all within a brief window. Word would spread quickly if Presidium members started dying, and the others would retreat to their inner domains, surrounded and protected by their most loyal retainers. No, there could be no warning…to any of them.

  He had to kill them all at the same time.

  * * *

  “The plot is far more extensive than we thought, sir. Sector Nine seems to have some level of control over a number of Senators, and the peace movement is gaining strength.” Shane Darvin leaned in toward Holsten as he spoke, his words barely a whisper.

  “The Senate is full of fools and imbeciles.” The disgust in Holsten’s voice was obvious. He was a committed advocate of republican government, but sometimes the combination of stupid, uninformed voters and corrupt career politicians shook his beliefs to their core. “Half of them are reprobate idiots, and the others are worse. They are hardcore criminals.”

  “Could it really be that easy for Sector Nine to gain control over the Senate? Just money?”

  “Money isn’t just money when you’re a pleasure-loving fool who’s squandered all he inherited, and now faces ridicule and humiliation back home…and perhaps a scandal salacious enough to actually deter the voters from rubberstamping your next reelection. Nothing is more unthinkable to these creatures than losing their seats, facing a life without the perquisites of power.”

  Holsten frowned. He’d been born with more than enough wealth and name to secure his own Senate seat, but the idea had always made him retch. He despised politicians, and he’d pursued the path he had out of what he liked to think of as pure patriotism. The Confederation’s government was flawed—deeply flawed—but compared to horrors like the Union, it was a virtual paradise. And that was worth preserving, whatever the cost.

  “We should be able to contain this plot, Shane…at least as long as the Union terms are so onerous. That treaty would cripple the Iron Belt worlds. The Oligarchs would never tolerate that, and they control the Senators from their planets.” He paused, looking over at his agent. “What we need to worry about is how to stop this if the Union becomes less greedy, if they offer reasonable terms. The Confederation is tired of fighting, and I’m afraid the Senate would jump on a chance to end hostilities in any tolerable way…and leave us with yet another war to fight.

  * * *

  “We are gathered here to discuss the activities of Gaston Villieneuve. Minister Villieneuve has apparently engaged in a protracted disinformation campaign designed to mislead this body. I am prepared to submit evidence of this treasonous activity, and a when this presentation is complete, I will ask for a vote to expel Gaston Villieneuve from the Presidium and remove him at once as the head of Sector Nine. Further, I shall propose the issuance an immediate warrant for Minister Villieneuve’s execution.” Quentin Lebecque stood at the head of the table, looking out over his comrades as he spoke.

  The men and women gathered around the table stared back, some with looks of genuine surprise, others seeming as though they’d harbored at least some suspicions.

  “I would like to begin by introducing Ricard Lille, one of Sector Nine’s most senior operatives and, until recently, a close compatriot of Gaston Villieneuve. Mr. Lille had seen firsthand the level of Minister Villieneuve’s corruption, and he is here to enlighten us.”

  Lille walked over to the head of the table. “Thank you, Your Excellency,” he said, his tone ringing with feigned respect. He stared out at the table, feeling almost patriotic as he watched his intended victims. However it had gotten there, the Union was in real trouble, and the truth was plain to see. Villieneuve was by far the most competent member of the Presidium, and whatever chance existed to preserve the Union, it rested with his continued, even enhanced, control. Lille didn’t have the slightest hope that the group of fools gathered around the table could address the myriad problems closing from all sides.

  He stood at the head of the table and described all the things Villieneuve had done, the missions, the frauds, the diversion of resources. He portrayed his friend not in any fictional terms but in the context of his actual deeds. He didn’t have to lie. Villieneuve was guilty as hell. He’d gone to great lengths to draw power into his own hands, and he’d violated a seemingly endless list of laws and rules to do it.

  The truth was more useful now than a pack of lies. Not only would his descriptions match whatever shreds of real intel anyone in the room possessed, but his delivery would be all the more effective for its truthfulness.

  He felt odd speaking out, seemingly turning against his old mentor. He would have been suspicious of anyone in his shoes, but he knew how the Presidium members thought. To them, it was entirely normal for a subordinate to sabotage his superior, clearing the way for his own advancement. He suspected every other individual in the room was sure he expected Villieneuve’s seats—both on the Presidium and as the head of Sector Nine—as his reward, and that served his purpose well.

  He wasn’t there to testify against Villieneuve, nor to conspire to attain offices he didn’t want. But his testimony had been the easiest way to gain access to the Presidium’s Inner Sanctum, the meeting area where only members of the council and the very occasional invited guests were ever allowed. There were no guards, no retainers, no one but the ruling members of the Union’s top body…and him.

  There were no weapons allowed, either. That was to be expected. But weapons took many forms, and as a man who considered himself the foremost assassin of his day, Ricard Lille possessed many tools to use in the killing of his victims.

  The deed was actually done already, though that wouldn’t be apparent for several hours. The virus was a bio-engineered marvel, custom-designed by Sector Nine as an assassination tool. Lille had seized it for his own use—and taken the precaution of terminating its creator to maintain secrecy. He’d kept it in reserve, until a worthy mission presented itself.

  The virus had an incubation period of three to four hours, after which, the victim—or victims—would die quick, and somewhat painful, deaths. Lille was infected, too, of course…there was no way to smuggle the virus into the Inner Sanctum, save in his own body. But the contagion rate was one hundred percent, and that made his own body the murder weapon.

  And, unlike the Presidium members, Lille had the only know antidote waiting for him. He would give himself a shot and endure several hours of what promised to be considerable gastro-intestinal distress…while the others pre
sent, every member of the Presidium save Gaston Villieneuve, would die in panicked agony, blood pouring from every bodily orifice.

  It was of such images that masterpieces were created.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Free Trader Pegasus

  Formara System

  “The Bottleneck”

  313 AC

  “We’re cutting this awfully close, Andi…” Vig was at the controls as Andi stood on the other side of the bridge, zipping up her survival suit.

  “I know.” It was all she could think to say. She hated the danger she was putting her people in, but she couldn’t leave now. She didn’t know why Barron hadn’t evacuated yet. Maybe he was hurt…or…

  It didn’t matter what. She wasn’t going to stand on Pegasus’s bridge and watch him die.

  “You know Dauntless’s layout as well as I do, Vig. Get me as close as you can to the bridge. That’s where he’s most likely to be.”

  “I’ll do the best I can, Andi.” It was clear Merrick wasn’t happy about her going aboard Dauntless with no idea of the conditions there. But she was also sure he knew better than to try to argue with her. At least about this. “Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

  She walked toward the hatch, ducking into the corridor beyond. “I’ll be quick.” She was tense, not just because of the danger, but because she wasn’t sure what she’d find. From what Travis had said, Barron should have evac’d by now. That meant something was wrong.

  She turned and stuck her head back through the hatch, looking at Merrick. “Vig, listen to me. If I’m not back in…” She looked at the chronometer on her wrist. “…eight minutes, you get the hell out of here. Do you understand?”

  Merrick returned her gaze, but he didn’t reply.

  “You won’t help me by getting Dolph and yourself killed. Eight minutes…and not a second longer.” She turned and moved down the corridor, far from confident he would obey her orders.

  She turned toward the hatch, waiting for the green light to come on, signifying the connection was solid. Every second passed by slowly, almost torturously, and then it popped lit up.

  She opened the hatch and stepped inside, walking down the umbilical until she got to a chunk of black, scarred metal. Dauntless’s hull.

  Breaking into a battleship was generally not an easy thing to do, but among the other bits of obscure knowledge she’d picked up over the past few years was Dauntless’s access code. She punched it in the battered keypad next to the hatch and, after a few tense seconds, she heard the sound of it popping open.

  Please, Tyler…you’ve got to be okay…

  She found herself overwhelmed with the fear that she’d step onto the bridge and see Barron lying next to his chair, dead. She paused for an instant, struggling to regroup herself. You have to do this…you have to hold it together…

  Then, she let out a deep breath and crawled through the hatch and into Dauntless.

  * * *

  Barron stared at the display, looking at the pulsar. Looking at his own death.

  He had minutes left, and all around the fringes of his mind, images danced. His crew, Admiral Striker, his grandfather…Andi. His life had been one full of war, a destiny to which he’d been born, but it had also been a good one, filled with some extraordinary people.

  He was helping to save them all…that, perhaps more than anything, made his fate seem almost palatable. He was scared of course. Anyone facing approaching death who said he wasn’t scared was a liar. But he’d made a peace of sorts with it. If he had to die, destroying that deadly weapon, saving more lives than he could easily count—was a pretty good reason.

  He imagined Atara and his people in their escape pods and shuttles, watching, frantically wondering why he hadn’t followed them. He’d almost panicked for a moment, thinking Atara or some of the others might try to come back for him—which would only get them killed too—but then he realized there was no way for the light ships to reverse their momentum in time. He was sorry he didn’t have any comm, that he couldn’t say goodbye, but he was glad to know they all had at least a chance.

  He spun around. He’d heard a sound, a strange one, and he looked in the direction it had seemed to come from. Are you hearing things?

  He shook his head, about to dismiss it, when he heard it again.

  “You’ve got to hold together, old girl…just a few minutes more.” He knew Dauntless was critically wounded, that there was damage all throughout his beloved ship that he didn’t even know about. The reactors were straining to keep the ship accelerating toward its target, and even the main structural supports were weakened, perhaps to the point of failure. With his crew gone, there were no engineers working on repairs. The loss of the AI meant there wasn’t even any substantial status monitoring of the various systems on the massive ship. For the most part, he was blind to Dauntless’s deteriorating condition.

  He leapt up from the chair and turned again. He was definitely hearing something. It was a clanging sound, almost like a hatch slamming open. But that wasn’t possible. Unless he was losing hull integrity near the bridge…

  That would be a problem for him, one that could rob him of his last few moments of life…but, far worse, the air blasting through any breach might throw Dauntless off its carefully-plotted course.

  He turned and took a step in the direction of the sound, and then he stopped dead…stunned, silent.

  There was a figure standing just inside the bridge, wearing a survival suit and looking at him.

  His first thought was one of the crew had failed to evacuate. But then, he realized the suit wasn’t military issue. It was civilian in design, a bit out of date. The kind of thing rogue adventurers might use.

  For an instant, he thought of Andi, but then he forced it out of his mind. She was lightyears away, safe…he had seen to that. Hadn’t he?

  The visitor took a step forward…and then ran across the bridge toward him. He was about to move to defend himself when the helmet popped open, and a riot of familiar dark hair spilled out. Then, the visitor reached his position, and threw her arms around him.

  “You’re alive…I knew you were alive!”

  Barron was stunned. It wasn’t possible. Yet, there she was.

  “How?” It was all he could manage to say.

  “You’re not as clever as you think you are.” She let go and took half a step from him, turning and glancing back the way she had come. “But I think we can discuss that later, don’t you? Right now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Barron was still in shock, but he just nodded, and then he followed her toward the corridor, and back to the hatch she’d used to board. She crouched down and climbed back into the umbilical, but Barron hesitated.

  “Come on, Tyler…we’re almost out of time.”

  He heard her words, and he knew she was right. But he couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t force himself to leave. He turned and looked back toward the bridge, his eyes moist, scenes of his first day as Dauntless’s commander dancing in front of him.

  He had ached for his own command since his earliest days in the Academy…earlier even, on those few occasions when his grandfather had discussed his wars. He’d built it up in his mind, something no reality could match, and yet, when it had finally happened, it had exceeded his every expectation.

  Dauntless was part of him…and he knew he’d never totally get over her loss. It took everything he had to leave his ship now, to abandon her to her final mission, and to total destruction.

  “Tyler, I know this is hard for you, but we’ve got to go.”

  He could feel Andi’s hand on his arm. Part of him still felt the urge to stay, to send her away and face the end at Dauntless’s helm. But she would never leave without him, he knew that. And he couldn’t endanger her.

  He took one last, teary-eyed look, and then he turned and followed Andi into the umbilical…and into Pegasus.

  * * *

  “Vig, we’re secure. Get us the hell out of here.” Lafarge wa
s tugging at her survival gear, pulling off as much as she could easily remove. She turned toward Barron. “Hang on…we don’t have time to strap in.” She reached out and grabbed onto the netting hanging from the wall, wrapping her arm around the material and getting a good grip.

  Barron followed suit. He didn’t have the countdown clock…that was still on Dauntless, but he knew there wasn’t much time. His ship was heading toward the pulsar at close to .003c, and the kinetic energy the collision would unleash would be enough to vaporize the pulsar…and anything else close by.

  The ship shook hard, a loud clanking sound echoing through the halls as it disconnected from Dauntless. His ship was truly gone now, and he knew he’d never set foot on her again.

  He reached out to the small screen in the corridor, flipping it on. He didn’t know his way around Pegasus like Andi did, but he was no stranger to the ship.

  He could see her watching him, and he knew she was wondering if she should let him watch. He thought she might interfere, but she remained silent. He knew they had much to talk about, not the least of which, how she’d managed to follow him to the Bottleneck…but he couldn’t. Not now.

  His eyes focused on the tiny screen, even as he worked the controls, centering on two large symbols…Dauntless and the pulsar.

  He could see there was less than a minute left, even as Pegasus fired her engines, and he was hit with a solid 3g of force. A third symbol appeared, smaller than the other two and slowly moving away. Andi’s ship wouldn’t be that far from the impact…but hopefully, it would be far enough.

  He stared through watery eyes, watching as the blue oval, the manifestation Pegasus’s computer used to represent Dauntless, moved steadily toward its target. The vector was dead on. The enemy tugs were almost in position, but not quite. Barron had gotten his ship there in time, before the enemy could withdraw the deadly artifact.