by Jay Allan
Horatius snapped his arm off his chest and then out toward Calavius, in a textbook example of the Alliance salute. “Sir!” he said sharply. Then he turned toward Vennius. “Commander-Maximus, sir, I have done as you ordered and continued to investigate Union intelligence activity and operations on Palatia…and throughout the Alliance.” He paused for a few seconds, clearly uncomfortable about what he had to say.
“Speak freely, Commander.” Vennius gestured toward an empty chair in front of his desk. “And please, be seated.” Calavius had already taken a seat unbidden, but the more junior officer remained at attention.
“Yes, sir,” Horatius said, the nervousness still in his tone. He sat down, though his posture remained as ramrod straight as it had been when he stood.
I was like that once too.
Horatius wasn’t a junior officer. He was command rank. But in the presence of the exalted Commander-Maximus, he might as well have been a cadet on his first training cruise.
Such nonsense…yet, I stood there once, no differently than he.
“Now report, Commander. I gave you this assignment because I have faith in your abilities. Whatever you need to say to me, do not hesitate.”
The officer sat silently for a few seconds. Then he blurted his response. “There is far more than disaffection fomented by Union agents than we feared, sir. I believe there is an active conspiracy in progress.”
The words hit Vennius hard, and he had to fight back the impulse to immediately dispute his subordinate’s assertion. “An active conspiracy?” he said simply. “That is a considerable assertion.” He’d been worried about trends in the Alliance, but it went against everything he’d believed all his life to even consider that any significant number of his fellow officers could be suborned to treason.
And that’s what it would be. Treason.
“Don’t discount what he says, Tark.” Calavius’s voice was grim. “He has assembled considerable evidence. Hear him out.”
Vennius looked over at the younger officer and nodded. “Please continue, Commander.”
Horatius took a deep breath and launched into a detailed analysis of his investigation, and by the time he was done, Vennius needed a drink.
“Can I offer you a brandy, Commander?” Vennius was looking over at Horatius. He had risen almost immediately after the report concluded and walked to the small bar to the side of his desk. His eyes darted for a moment to Calavius. “I won’t even ask you,” he said, his tone a failed attempt at humor. “In forty years, you’ve never said no.”
“No, sir,” Horatius replied, “Thank you, sir.”
Vennius nodded, but then he poured a third glass anyway. He walked back across the room and handed one to each of his companions. Horatius took it without question, as Vennius knew he would do. Would have to do. “To the Alliance,” he said, lifting the glass to eye level.
“To the Alliance,” the other officers repeated. Horatius took a tentative sip, but Calavius and Vennius drained their glasses in one gulp. It was that kind of night…and the news was that bad.
Vennius set his glass down on the desk and sighed softly. “Very well, gentlemen, so how do we move forward?”
Calavius put his empty glass down next to Vennius’s. “We need to prepare, to be ready. We need to secure Victorum, for one thing, all the vital installations. The military assets are spread all across the Alliance, of course, but with the fleet at peacetime deployments, much of our strength is here, in the Astara system. Not to mention that the main command centers and logistics nodes are in the capital.” He paused for a few seconds. “And the Imperatrix…we need to increase security at the palace as well.”
Horatius remained silent, nodding as his superior officer spoke.
Vennius showed no emotion, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t feeling any. The notion that plotting officers might move against the Imperatrix, whom they had all sworn to serve unto death, was appalling to him, but he didn’t let it interfere with his judgment.
“Certainly, all of that, at least.” Vennius’s expression was hard, like a statue carved from granite. “I want to do more, though. If there are traitors in our midst, we have to root them out. I will see every one of them mount the scaffold for what they have done.”
“Of course, Tark…but we need to be ready for anything. With your permission, I will assume personal command over the capital area security forces. I will lock down fleet and army headquarters, and I will make sure all key personnel are protected.”
Vennius was nodding, even before his friend finished. “Yes, Gratian, by all means. I don’t think we can afford any carelessness now. I know this is an assignment below your station, but…”
“Not to worry, my old friend. We do what we must in times of crisis…and, of course, no order you elect to give would be too insignificant to obey.”
“Thank you. Utilize whatever resources you require, draw what forces you feel are necessary. We must ensure that the Imperatrix is safe, as well as all militarily significant installations. At least until we can determine how deep the treachery runs.”
“Consider it done, Tark.”
Vennius nodded, and then he sat silently for a moment. Finally, he looked up, his eyes locked on Horatius’s. “Commander, I want you to continue your investigations. While Commander Calavius is seeing to our defensive measures, you are going to help me find every disloyal officer and warrior, every Prob and Pleb taking Union coin or conspiring against the rightful government.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer’s tone was sharp, almost feral. Vennius didn’t know Horatius as well as he did Calavius, but he’d gotten the impression the Commander-Princeps was old school despite his younger age, dedicated to the principles that built the Alliance. He hoped he was right. Perhaps the worst part of the Union machinations was the distrust it sowed, the way it made him suspect officers, even those like Horatius, who gave no cause.
“I apologize in advance for the lack of sleep you are likely to endure, Commander Horatius…but we are going to rip out this cancer root and branch, and neither of us is going to rest until every traitor faces justice!”
Chapter Two
Grand Hotel
Jade Coast
Planet Oleyus, Iridia III
309 AC
“So, we’ve discovered one thing for certain on this trip, against all expectations. You actually can relax.” Andi was lying on her stomach, looking across the bed toward Tyler Barron. She was naked, save for a silk sheet draped over her, positioned strategically enough, she hoped, to interfere with his ability to think about the fleet or the war or even that bloody ship of his. She figured she had a good chance of driving most of it out of his mind, but the battleship always gave her a good run. Dauntless was the one thing in Barron’s life she wasn’t sure she could compete with. And Andromeda Lafarge was always loath to admit there was a rival she couldn’t best.
Barron was just through the open glass doors, outside on the terrace, staring out over the crystal blue water. The sea was calm now, the waves just tiny ripples on the white sandy beach. Oleyus’s Jade Coast was just about the most breathtaking place she’d ever seen.
Barron turned back toward her and smiled. “I can do a lot of things you probably didn’t think I could.”
It promised to be a hot day, but it was still early, and the morning breeze coming off the ocean made it as close to perfect as any time she could recall. Save for one thing, a dark shadow looming over paradise. They were leaving in a few hours. Barron had to get back to duty, to his damnable ship, and Andi’s crew would be waiting for her as well. Their escape from the universe, from the harsh demands that pulled so relentlessly at each of them, was almost over.
“I know all about the things you can do. But don’t try to convince me your mind isn’t already back on duty. After these past few months, I think I know you that well, at least.”
She had surprised herself with just how much she cared for Barron. She generally disliked government authoritarian types,
and she was prone to throw the term “jackboot” around pretty freely. She detested privileged little rich boys and girls who stepped into predestined career paths, courtesy of their names and a roster of accomplished parents and grandparents. Barron was the most famous of them all, his lineage, at least in terms of the navy, the most golden. To the extent she’d ever thought of the famous Tyler Barron before she’d actually met him, it had been with the same derision she directed at all his peers. But he was different, not spoiled, not even a jackboot…or at least not as bad of one as she’d have thought. The more she got to know him, the more she realized that. And the more she liked him. Not to mention the fact that he was easy on the eyes.
She felt like she knew him well, though there were parts of him that were inaccessible, almost impossible to reach. They were very different in many ways, but that was something they had in common. There was an aloofness to both of them, a way they were separate from all those around them.
“It’s hard to believe my leave is almost up. Six months seemed like an eternity, but it flew by in an instant.” There was a touch of real regret in his voice, she was sure of that. But she could also hear the desire to get back to his ship, his crew. Their extended vacation had come courtesy of the lull in the war, and the long deferred and desperately needed repairs to Dauntless. But the quiet at the front wouldn’t last forever, and Barron’s beloved ship would be ready to return to the fleet soon. For all she liked to think he enjoyed his time with her, she understood that nothing could keep him from the war, not when his comrades would be there, fighting the enemy. He was one of those rare types, sane enough to hate war, yet drawn to it as a calling. She knew he could hardly have been anything else, that his privilege had come with its own burdens, and a reputation he’d been born with, compelled to chase and catch all his life.
“Well, that’s not your fault. It was my company, after all, that made the time pass so quickly.”
“Yes, it was,” he said, more earnestly than she’d expected. His eyes focused on her more intently now, clearly noticing her scant covering, and the curves below. “It’s a shame we’ve got to pack and get down to the spaceport.” He paused, clearly forcing himself to look away. “The orbital shuttle leaves in…” He glanced across the room toward a clock on the wall. “…a little over three hours.”
Barron could have returned to Dannith on a military transport, of course, but Andi had suggested they take a luxury liner instead, to squeeze out a few last weeks together. It hadn’t been easy to find a first-class ship going to a backwater like Dannith, and there wasn’t another one scheduled for at least a month, so missing the shuttle wasn’t an option.
She stretched her arms out in front of her, sighing softly. “It’s too beautiful out to leave,” she said, a playful whine in her tone. Lafarge was a hard worker, as deadly serious and diligent in her own pursuits as Barron was in the performance of his duty. But she’d enjoyed the taste of luxury over the past few months, and she didn’t relish leaving it—or her companion—behind. Still, it would be good in ways to be back aboard Pegasus, back to her own crew. She was a touch envious of the hold Barron’s ship had on him, but deep down she realized she wasn’t all that different. She longed for Pegasus as much as Barron did for Dauntless, or close to as much, and though she’d miss him—and paradise—she knew it was time to get back to her own people. Reality had been more patient than usual, but now it was calling.
Her ship was in spacedock alongside Barron’s, under repair courtesy of Admiral Striker, his way of thanking her for helping to prevent the Union from obtaining the ancient vessel they had come so close to seizing. The admiral had been generous with her, and though she knew his largesse had been far less than the value of what she had done, it was far more than she had expected. She’d worked the fleet commander a bit, and he’d let her do it, but she’d also known when to quit, to stop pushing and declare victory.
The destruction of the giant warship had likely averted the total dominance of the Union, and she wondered what kind of price could be put on that. Or on the canister of antimatter she’d brought back, that her erstwhile lover had seen fit to take from her. But she was satisfied with what Striker had done, more or less. For all her coldly mercenary ways and her scrapes with the authorities, she was loyal to the Confederation. She knew what the Union was, and what it would mean to live under its rule.
Still, she liked her rewards on the tangible side, cash and other valuables instead of feel good accolades and patriotic satisfaction. For all her acceptances and justifications, she had a hard time shaking the thought of just what price she could have set on a couple hundred kilograms of antimatter. Perhaps that made her seem cold and greedy, but she didn’t care what most people thought. What anybody thinks…
She realized almost immediately she was lying to herself with that last bit. She liked to view herself as coldblooded, to believe that her uses for people extended just as far as they were helpful to her and not a millimeter farther. That wasn’t true, of course, at least not completely. Her loyalty to her crew was genuine, and ferocious as well. She’d fought savagely to protect them on more than one occasion, and she would do it again, if necessary. And she had to admit, she cared what Tyler Barron thought of her…she cared more than she was prepared to acknowledge.
That didn’t mean she was apologetic for her ways. Far from it. She clung to her coldness, and her opinion of the universe, and people in general, was pretty dark.
She was fond of Barron—that was as much as she intended to admit to herself, certainly while the war was still raging. There was no place in her life for more than that. She could like Barron, enjoy his company, even indulge in a world-class romp with him as she had just done over the past few months. But that was all she had to give…and, she knew, it was all Barron had to offer as well. There was a spark between them, there was no question about that, a fire that tantalized with “what ifs,” but they were set on their paths, and those trails led in different directions.
Besides, as much as she liked Barron, and knew he liked her, he would never be able to understand her, not really. His life had been too different than hers, and she couldn’t imagine he would ever relate to her priorities, not until she saw a teenaged Tyler Barron scavenging through piles of garbage in a ghetto’s gutter, as she had. She would accede to his sense of honor and duty, buy into the higher-minded things he believed, when he had traveled a few kilometers in her shoes, starting that journey with nothing, absolutely nothing. Everything Andromeda Lafarge had ever had, she had gotten for herself…including those proverbial shoes.
Tyler Barron was a good man, far from the spoiled and arrogant types so common among the Confederation’s most privileged classes. But, for all his attempted understanding, he could never comprehend what it meant to be utterly destitute, roaming the streets of an industrial slum, a child, alone, looking for something, anything, to eat…or the determination of someone like her to ensure she never ended up in that position again. Barron could discount the importance of wealth, because he’d never known anything else. He could afford high-minded ideals. But Andromeda Lafarge could never forget her poverty.
She looked around the room, at the sunlight brightening the pale-yellow walls, at the breeze blowing the petals of the flower arrangement on the table. She inhaled deeply, savoring the faint saltiness of the sea air. She was sad about leaving the slice of paradise they’d called home for the past several months, but, as pleasant as it had been, it was only a fantasy they’d been living. The war called Barron back to duty, and her own needs and obligations summoned her with no less pull. Admiral Striker had given her a significant reward, more than she’d expected, though it was an infinitesimal fraction of the treasure she’d imagined, fantasizing about selling the antimatter they’d found on the ancient ship…or what they could have realized from the vessel itself and the untold wonders within.
Barron had saved her life, rescued her from the clutches of the Sector Nine, and she was well aware that she
would never have managed to retrieve anything at all from the artifact without Dauntless’s intervention. But none of that took her mind away from how close she’d come to vast, almost unimaginable wealth. The honorarium the admiral had provided was generous—she tried to look at it that way—but divided up among the crew it was only a good payday…not the retirement score she craved. As much as she wanted to stay, to enjoy the surf and sun and Barron’s…pleasant…company, she knew it was time. Time to get back to work. Almost.
She glanced over at Barron, still standing by the patio, and she frowned. He had taken a long glance at her as she lay on the bed, but now he was pretending he wasn’t looking at her. His touch of feigned disinterest annoyed her. She scolded herself for her reaction. She’d always prided herself on being cold as ice. She never let people get to her. Never.
Almost never…
She shifted her weight slightly to the side, smiling wickedly as she felt the light silk sheet slide off her and down to the floor. “The shuttle to the spacedock only takes fifteen minutes, you know. And I can pack quickly, Ty.” She looked up at him and smiled. “How about you? Didn’t they teach you to throw your clothes in a bag on the fly at the Academy?”
Chapter Three
Victorum, Alliance Capital City
Planet Palatia, Astara II
Year 61 (310 AC)
“Things are much worse than we thought, Tark. I’ve had to relieve a dozen officers in the Capital Area Forces on suspicion of accepting Union bribes. I have no hard evidence, not enough for trials yet, at least, but I felt I had no choice but to replace them. Even a few traitors in key posts could cause immense problems.” Calavius had a troubled look on his face. “I don’t know, Tark, perhaps I should have…”
“You did the right thing, Gratian.” Vennius spoke slowly, a grave tone to his voice. He paused and shook his head. “Whatever else the Union has done, they have us acting like them, imprisoning officers without evidence, without trials. But what else can we do? As you said, it wouldn’t take many turncoats in the right positions to cause a series of disasters.”