by Jay Allan
Vennius and his friend walked along the Via Magna. The main boulevard of the Alliance’s capital was flanked by massive, blocky buildings, imposing and stark in design. The route ran just over two kilometers, from the Admiralty building at one end to the Council Hall at the other. It was normally busy, with large groups moving about on all sorts of business, but now the everyday traffic was mostly gone. Calavius had imposed a series of curfews and assembly restrictions, and he’d set up a number of checkpoints and roadblocks, predominantly to clear the way for troops movements.
A row of transports moved past the two even then, their heavy treads clanking loudly as they passed. Military personnel and vehicles were hardly an uncommon sight anywhere in the Alliance, but the current traffic levels were far above normal. Vennius had agreed with Calavius’s plan to reposition the Capital Area Forces, taking all steps to ensure only loyal units were positioned near the vital facilities.
“What about the palace?” Vennius turned and looked off to the north, to the hulking residence of the Imperator, perched high on a rocky spur jutting out into the sea.
“I have positioned several of my most reliable cohorts to cover all the approaches.” He paused, uncomfortably. “I requested permission to deploy some additional forces on the palace grounds to supplement the Imperial Guard, but I was…refused.”
Vennius almost laughed. He knew the Imperatrix well, and he could almost hear her telling Calavius to keep his soldiers away from the palace. Vennius had never known a human being as tough and as courageous as the Imperatrix, and he wasn’t surprised to hear she had refused additional forces to protect her. She had selected every member of the Imperial Guard personally over the years, and only the most senior of her old veterans were assigned to duty at the palace.
“I am quite sure she did, Gratian. Quite sure.” Vennius shook his head. He was worried, more even than he had been a few weeks before, when Calavius and Horatius had first come to propose the enhanced force levels in the capital. “I will speak with her.”
“I think that would be wise, Tark. If they can get to the Imperatrix, even a small force could…”
“I know. I know.” Vennius nodded, his head moving back to look again at the palace.
“At least she will listen to you.”
Vennius did laugh this time. “I’ve known her a long time, Gratian, but if you think it’s a sure thing she will listen to anyone, me included, you’re sorely mistaken. She’s as likely to send me away with a blast of invective for troubling her with something she already refused to you.”
“Well, it’s worth a try, anyway. Meanwhile, I’ll reinforce the palace area units. We may not be able to deploy additional forces into the palace, but we can have them a few minutes away.”
“Do it.” Vennius turned back, looking down the street as yet another convoy of transports went by. This group had three heavy armored fighting vehicles with them. “AFVs?” he asked, his eyes darting back toward Calavius. “You’re really not taking any chances, are you?”
“Just a few, Tark. Think about it. What would happen if a group of dissidents managed to get a few heavy vehicles into the center of the city? They could wreak havoc before we could get our own AFVs in from the outer bases.” He paused, as if he was waiting for Vennius to say something. Then he continued, “I just figured it was better to overreact than underreact. Do you think it’s too much? Want me to send them back to base?”
Vennius shook his head. “No, you’re right. Might be a little hard on the road surface, but what are a few repairs compared to getting caught with our pants down?” He paused for a few seconds. “Is everything in position? Do you feel comfortable about our hold on everything?” Vennius had been fully occupied with Horatius over the past few weeks, trying to track down those who had taken Union bribes. They’d made a few arrests, but whoever was running the Union operation was a real pro. None of the prisoners seemed to know much about the others involved…even when Vennius had authorized the use of the enhanced “Red” techniques. The lack of success had sucked him deeper into the operation, and he was glad to have an old comrade like Calavius to handle the capital defenses.
“Do you really think all this is necessary, Tark?” Calavius took a deep breath and sighed hard. “Maybe we are overdoing it.”
“No,” Vennius replied. “No, I don’t think so. There’s too much Union money, too much effort on their part for nothing. They’re neck deep in the war with the Confederation…they don’t have these kinds of resources to waste on nothing. There is something going on, and if you ask for my best guess, it’s bigger than anything we’re worrying about, and not smaller.” Vennius had been nervous at the first meeting, but now he was on edge. Something was going on, and his inability to get to the bottom of it had him worried. It was almost as if the conspirators were getting some kind of warning just in time to cover their tracks.
“Gratian,” he said softly, glancing around to make sure they were alone. “How sure are you about Horatius?”
Calavius stopped abruptly. “No, Tark…no way. He’s solid. He’s one of the most loyal officers I’ve even met.”
Vennius nodded. “Yes…you’re right. I know that. It’s just…we’re not getting past the low-level types, and none of them seem to know anything. Even with strong…persuasion. I was sure we’d be farther along by now.”
“At least we’ve got security under control. With the forces we’ve got in position, any attempt at causing trouble is doomed, at least in the capital and at the vital installations. Even if something happens, we’ll have it shut down in an instant, and any damage will be well-contained.”
Vennius looked over at his friend. “Thank you, Gratian. Your efforts have been above and beyond.” He stared out over the Via Magna, as yet another convoy of troop transports rumbled down the wide avenue. “Stay on it for me, my friend. Don’t let anything slip by.” There was concern in Vennius’s tone, and he paused for a moment. “I just have a bad feeling, Gratian. Something is going to happen. Soon. Whatever we’re dealing with, it’s well planned. Too well.”
Calavius extended his arm, grasping Vennius, hand on forearm, in the Alliance style. “I will stand guard, my old friend, and I shall let nothing pass. You focus on getting to the root of this…and bringing the traitors to justice. Together we will stand watch. We will guard the Alliance. The way is the way.”
Vennius gripped his friend’s forearm. “The way is the way.” He took a deep breath. “Thank you, my friend. I will find them all, and when I do…”
* * *
“Commander…” The officer crouched down, leaning forward on one knee. The quasi-prostration wasn’t official Alliance protocol, but Colonel Drusus Lentius occupied a hybrid position in the armed forces. He was the head of Vennius’s retainers, which made him half Alliance soldier, and half commander of the Commander-Maximus’s private army. The family-bonded soldiers traced their origins back to the earliest days of the insurrections that freed Palatia from its offworld masters, and the greatest families had maintained the tradition, funding private units from the Citizens and Probs on their vast estates.
“Rise, Drusus. By God, you’re a Citizen of the Alliance and a decorated officer.”
“Sir!” The officer jumped up to his feet. He wore his full-dress uniform, a costume Vennius knew from his own experience was hideously uncomfortable. He didn’t feel it was necessary for the retainer to make such a fuss—actually he thought it was ridiculous—though he knew, to Lentius, it was a matter of displaying respect. Vennius was a man who understood loyalty, how to cultivate and maintain it, so he didn’t say anything.
He had never cared for the overly submissive trappings of the retainer relationship, most of which had passed out of common usage in the Alliance, but Lentius had always taken it to heart. He had come from a clan of relatively low rank, and he and many of his cousins owed their prosperity to Vennius’s sponsorship. The Lentius family, and especially Drusus, took loyalty to almost absurd levels, and despite Venn
ius’s frequent attempts to get the commander of his personal legion to relax, the man still bowed every time he walked into the room.
“What can I do for you, Drusus? You’re here for a reason, no doubt?” The family retainers served in the Alliance’s wars, but with the current peace, the Vennius Legion had returned home. Most of its soldiers had gone on partial duty and were now pitching in with the work on the estate, especially with the harvest in full swing. Lentius wouldn’t be away now, not unless he had a good reason. He was a serious man, and a reliable one. Everything he did had purpose behind it.
“Commander, I am here to request permission to assign one of the cohorts to the capital under my direct command, specifically, to serve as your bodyguard.”
Vennius was sitting at his desk, his head lowered, his eyes on a list of dispatches, as he listened to his retainer. But now he looked up, and stared right at Lentius. “Bodyguard? Drusus, have you lost your mind? I have guards all around. There’s security in the building at all times, plus the Capital Area Forces positioned all around. In addition, you have to have noticed that we’ve increased force levels everywhere in Victorum. Why would I possibly need more security?” He shook his head. “No, Lentius, I appreciate your concern, but I suspect you can do more for me back on the estates, making sure the harvest goes well. I’m told the grapes this year are particularly plump. I only wish I could spare the time to come home for a few weeks and see it all myself.” Vennius took a breath. He’d have thought peace, a rare enough occurrence in the Alliance, would have allowed him some free time, enough at least for a trip home, a few days enjoying the heady smell of the vines, bursting with ripe bunches of fruit. His estates were beautiful, and autumn had always been his favorite season. But it just wasn’t possible, not this year, at least.
Lentius interrupted his thoughts. “Commander, I must beg you to reconsider. We have heard rumblings, talk of trouble in the Alliance.” He was displaying an uncharacteristic level of resistance, almost defiance, by arguing against Vennius’s decision. He hesitated, clearly struggling with the implications of what he was saying. “Can you truly be sure of the loyalty of the forces in the capital, sir? I beg your indulgence in allowing me to take charge of your personal security. The Vennius Legion is one hundred percent trustworthy…I would guarantee that with my life.”
Vennius was about to refuse Lentius’s request again, but his eyes caught the retainer’s. He saw the earnestness, remembered the man’s decades of faithful service. Drusus Lentius hadn’t come to Victorum, without permission and on his own initiative, on a whim. That didn’t mean he was right, but managing loyalty was a complex process. He owed it to Lentius to heed his warnings, or at least appear to give them weight. For an instant, he considered granting the request. But he realized almost immediately he couldn’t do it. Rumors of a coup were flying all around, and he could only imagine the reaction to the fleet commander’s personal retinue marching into the streets of the capital.
“Drusus, your service, your unswerving loyalty…I cannot overstate how greatly I value these things, or you yourself. You are my comrade in arms, my friend. But I still must refuse your request. Moving my personal forces into the city will only exacerbate things, even point suspicion in my direction. We must be cautious now, and realize that actions can be easily misinterpreted.” He paused. “Go back home, my friend. See to the harvest. I have things in hand here.” Then he added, “Keep our people ready…but remain in place unless I call for you.”
“Commander…”
“My order is final, Colonel.” Vennius stood up, walking around the desk toward Lentius. “But know that I trust you without question, and that your loyalty and devotion are among the things I prize most greatly. Now go, Drusus. Go home.”
The officer stood still for an instant, his effort to mask his discomfort a dismal failure. Then he looked down as Vennius extended his arm and grasped the retainer’s. It was a breach of protocol for the two to exchange such an embrace, but Vennius didn’t care.
Lentius hesitated for an instant, but then he took Vennius’s lead, and grasped his commander’s arm. His face was a mask of conflicting emotions, but he obeyed. He stepped back and saluted crisply, and then he turned and walked through the door.
Vennius watched, seeing worry and doubt in the man’s hunched over shoulders and slow, plodding pace. He wished he could have accepted Lentius’s proposal, but there was no room for mistakes now. He had to be careful, and see the Alliance through this crisis. And giving anyone reason to believe he was planning a grab for the Imperatrix’s chair himself could only make things more difficult and dangerous.
Chapter Four
Sector Nine Headquarters
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV,
Union Year 213 (309 AC)
Gaston Villieneuve sat quietly at his desk, reading dispatches. A tall glass rested off to the side, filled halfway with a thick yellowish-green liquid, a sickly-looking concoction made from an assortment of fruits harvested from deep within the jungles of Montmirail’s tropical zone. He reached out, picking it up and moving it to his lips. He grimaced as he took a deep drink. It tasted like something that had gone bad a week before—maybe even a month—but the locals swore by the drink as a digestive aid, and Villieneuve’s stomach had been bothering him for months now. He was ready to try just about anything that promised relief, and one of the unintended benefits of a government that denied sufficient medical care to most of its oppressed population was the development of a wide variety of homegrown remedies, some of which actually worked.
Including this swill…
It gave him relief from the burning and the almost constant discomfort he otherwise felt, and that was enough to make it worth choking down. He knew his problems weren’t the result of any serious conditions—his private doctor had checked him out thoroughly. It was just stress, and the best thing his physician had been able to offer was the rather amusing suggestion that he try to cut down on tension. The doctor would never know how close that comment had gotten him to spending the rest of his life on an asteroid, trying to prolong the lives of miners being slowly eaten away by radiation. The past six months had been a difficult period for the head of the Union’s spy agency, and he’d barely survived it. At least he was beginning to hope he’d survived it. Relaxing—never really an option for him—certainly wasn’t one now.
Villieneuve had taken a daring gamble…and lost. He’d activated the strategic reserve, without the Presidium’s approval, or even its knowledge. He’d committed it to an all-out offensive, just as a smokescreen, a diversion to cover his attempt to retrieve an ancient vessel from the Badlands. He’d planned every aspect of the mission, sent massive forces, pinned down the Confederation fleets. It had been perfectly planned, a sure thing. But still, his gambit had failed. It had failed not because he hadn’t sent enough strength, nor because the Confederation had sent too much. Not because he had miscalculated or because his intelligence had been unreliable. No, by all accounts his plan should have succeeded. Save for one thing. Tyler Barron and that damnable battleship of his.
There was no way one ship, especially one as old as Dauntless, could have resisted the massive forces he had sent. Not by any rational analysis or understanding of war. But Barron had achieved a stalemate of sorts, destroying the ancient vessel, and with it any chance to reclaim the advanced technology and knowledge of the old empire. Not only destroying it, but doing so and escaping…almost as if to rub dirt on Villieneuve’s face. He had almost felt the power in his hands, and word that the ship had been vaporized struck him like a hammer blow.
Things had only gotten worse from there. The analysis of the energy released in the explosion confirmed all too clearly just what he had lost. It was antimatter, that much was certain, more of the precious substance than existed anywhere in the Union—or in the Confederation. Millions of times more. The power he’d lost had not only been that his people could have gleaned from lengthy research and a
dvancement. No, it had been far more immediately tangible than that. Such a quantity of antimatter offered enough power to crush the Confederation, and all the other nations as well. And it had been sitting there for the taking, ready to use in any way he wished. Until Tyler Barron destroyed it. That explosion had cost Villieneuve nothing less than total domination of inhabited space.
He’d been consumed by rage at first, by hatred for Barron and his crew. This was the third time they had interfered with his plans, robbed him of certain victory. It was almost too much to take. But his anger quickly gave way to something far more urgent. Fear. He had lied to the Presidium, forged the orders that had released the strategic reserve, and all for nothing. He had naught to show for his efforts, save for tantalizing images of the ancient vessel, now destroyed…and a shattered fleet, pulled back to the border, incapable of further offensive action. The fact that the Confederation navy had itself been nearly destroyed in the fighting was some solace, but it hadn’t gone far to soften the rage of his colleagues when they found out what he had done.
He’d taken what steps he’d had to in order to survive, and on some level, he was still surprised at his success. He had his own foresight to credit, and that of his predecessor. Sector Nine’s secret data banks were full of information, including files on every member of the Presidium. Even the Union’s supreme governing body was unaware of just what its spy agency actually knew. Corruption, murder, drug addiction, sexual perversions…there had been no shortage of secrets available to Villieneuve for use in bringing the enraged Presidium ministers to heel. His colleagues were men and women who wielded almost absolute power, but they all had enemies, some sitting at that table with them. There was no lack of evidence of egregious thefts or affairs, or in one particularly nasty example, the poisoning of the fifteen-year old son of one of the ministers by a rival.