Echoes of Glory (Blood on the Stars Book 4)

by Jay Allan

  It had been messy business all around, and he’d won few friends in the process, but that didn’t matter to him. Blackmail and fear were far better guarantors of cooperation than friendship. And for all the anger and bitterness at his unauthorized actions, one thing was certain. The rest of the Presidium was more afraid of him now than ever before.

  Still, despite his treasure trove of secrets, he hadn’t managed to come through the ordeal without bloodshed. Francois Moldinal had proven to be without corruption—or simply better at hiding it than his colleagues—and he’d been dead set on bringing Villieneuve down. He’d come close, but, as he had so often in the past, Villieneuve had his longtime ally, Ricard Lille to thank for the victory. Killing Moldinal had been a delicate task, not one he could have assigned to just any assassin. As much as Villieneuve had wanted to, he couldn’t simply have had the minister gunned down in the street, or even murdered by his mistress in bed. Killing a member of the Presidium was utterly forbidden, the one action guaranteed to turn all the others irretrievably against him. No, there could be no signs that his rival had been assassinated. No evidence. Ever.

  In the end, Lille had used a poison, a very special one obtained from his own mysterious sources, unknown in the laboratories of the Union. It left no trace, none at all, and to even the most intense medical scans, it appeared that Moldinal had simply died of heart failure. Villieneuve knew most of the Presidium still suspected his hand was somehow behind the unexpected death, but there wasn’t the slightest scrap of evidence. With no smoking gun, Moldinal’s death was accepted, and amid an avalanche of hushed threats and outright bribes, Villieneuve moved past his recent failure and betrayal more or less unscathed, with no meaningful loss of power or position. Nothing but the pain in his stomach.

  His eyes dropped to the tablet on his desk, and he placed his thumb over the scanner. The document was highly classified, linked to his personal ID, and he waited as the AI confirmed his identity and opened the file.

  Lille’s words appeared on the screen, the meaningless gibberish displayed at first morphing into readable text as the computer decrypted the communique. Lille’s reward for eliminating Moldinal had been another mission, a difficult and dangerous one. The continuation of a previous effort he’d made, one that would have been a success three years before without Tyler Barron’s interference.

  Villieneuve nodded slightly as he read, and a smile slipped slowly onto his lips, the first burst of genuine satisfaction he’d felt in as long as he could remember. Things were going well, better than he’d expected. Lille was in the Alliance with his people, under cover as spies and provocateurs, not as ambassadors. Villieneuve had never truly given up on the idea of luring the Alliance into the war against the Confederation, and he’d had operatives there since Lille’s first expedition, listening, probing for any signs of dissatisfaction in the upper ranks of the Palatian command, seeking weakness wherever it could be found. To his significant surprise, they had found a considerable amount.

  Still, his past experiences with the Alliance had left him less than hopeful of success, and the project had remained on a back burner. That is, until the debacle in the Badlands and the massive damage to the fleet left him scrambling for options. The Confed forces were in no better shape than his own right now, but he knew the Union couldn’t match the output of the enemy’s shipyards and massive industry, not over the long run. Time wasn’t an ally, not to the Union. Something had to be done, and the best bet seemed to be luring the Alliance into the fight, whatever it took. And if he couldn’t persuade the Alliance to ally with the Union, he needed a new Alliance government, one that would.

  He’d known from the start that had not been an easy prospect, nor a cheap one, but as his eyes moved down Lille’s report, he began to allow himself to hope it had been a successful one. Ricard Lille was not one to exaggerate his progress, as so many others did, and the list of potential conspirators his people had organized was a long one, with a number of high-ranking names at the top.

  Alliance culture was hard, its people raised to be strong. But there was a naivety to it as well, a vulnerability to operators who played the games of espionage and politics as well as those of Sector Nine did. The more Villieneuve’s people probed, the greater the gap they found between the older generations, those who had come of age at the founding of the Alliance or during its early expansion, and those who inherited the wealth and power their parents and grandparents had amassed.

  Villieneuve had poured vast amounts of money into the effort, seeking to widen that gulf, to sow dissension and disorder. Assembling the funds, especially after the costs of the first three years of war, was difficult, and he ended up pulling it secretly from hundreds of accounts, repeating the kind of secrecy and deception that had come so close to destroying him months before. But there was no choice, none that he could see. The Presidium would discuss options endlessly while avoiding any definitive action. And he only had a few months before the first new Confederation battleships launched, and perhaps a year before they hit the front in large enough numbers to threaten the deadlock. The time was now. If he was going to turn the war around, win the victory he so desperately needed, there wasn’t a moment to waste.

  He read the rest of the report. Lille was requesting more coin, an almost unimaginable sum on top of the immense treasure he’d already spent. Villieneuve would have suspected any of his other operatives of graft, but not Lille. His friend was a cold-blooded psychopath, and a man who enjoyed killing above all pursuits, but strangely enough, he wasn’t a thief. He tended to demand what he wanted openly, and, if need be, he took it by violence rather than deception. But he accounted for every credit of funding entrusted to him on missions.

  Villieneuve extended his hand out toward the comm unit, but he paused before activating it. It would be difficult to obtain the amount of funding Ricard needed while maintaining the secrecy the operation so desperately required. He didn’t really trust his people, not even his closest, longest serving operatives…not with something this crucial. He knew the Union’s ways too well. Everyone who knew his secrets was a weakness, and Gaston Villieneuve did not put himself at anyone’s mercy, not when he could possibly avoid it.

  He reached over toward his workstation, punching at the keyboard. He would handle everything himself, directly through his personal AI. He had to rely on Lille, of course, but he had no intention of adding anyone else to that list. Not now. If his plan worked, if his scheme to trigger a coup and replace the Alliance government succeeded and brought that power into the war, there would be time to reshuffle the accounts and cover up what he had done. And even if his machinations were discovered, no one would dare challenge him, not after his efforts had so dramatically shifted the fortunes of the war.

  He entered a series of codes, giving his AI access to the Union’s central bank. The system would draw what Lille needed, pulling it in increments from millions of individual accounts, covering up the transfers with faked records and arranging for the dispatch of the physical currency Lille needed for his payoffs. It was as perfect a system as he could conceive, and one he believed—hoped, at least—would cover his tracks for long enough. It helped, of course, that tracing down financial fraud and theft fell within Sector Nine’s purview, and as such, within his control.

  He glanced back at Lille’s dispatch. He’d arranged the funding, and Lille seemed confident he had all the conspirators he needed. There was nothing left to do but issue the final authorization.

  He reached out, entering the designated code that only he knew. Then he placed his thumb back on the scanner. He watched as the screen went black, and then a few second later, as a single zero appeared. Confirmation that the signal had been sent. As soon as it reached Lille, the final phase would begin.

  Now there was nothing for Villieneuve to do now but wait…and see if Lille could deliver him a new Alliance government, and a new Imperator, ready to repay his debt with an invasion of the Confederation.

  Chapt
er Five

  Victorum, Alliance Capital City

  Planet Palatia, Astara II

  Year 61 (310 AC)

  “This is unacceptable, Commander. We have been investigating for weeks now, and still we have nothing to show for it but a few low-level conspirators, none of whom seem to have any useful knowledge on anyone save for other minor players. There have to be more than debtors and disgraced fools in this. The one useful thing we’ve managed to confirm is that there is—there must be—a real plot. There are too many people involved, too much coin. It has to be the Union behind it, and they wouldn’t risk something like this unless they had reason to believe they could pull it off.” Vennius was shaking his head in disgust as he spoke. His efforts to uncover the details of what he could only assume was a planned coup had grown to consume virtually all of his time, at the expense of other crucial matters. The tension level, the around the clock alerts, the massive troop deployments in and around the capital…it couldn’t go on forever. Even without a coup, it was degrading virtually all normal business.

  “I have pursued every lead, Commander-Maximum, every scrap of data we possess. To no avail.” Horatius stood next to Vennius, almost at attention. The two men were standing along the capital’s waterfront, looking northward, toward the Imperial Palace. “I am confident those we have interrogated told us all they knew. They were not particularly admirable specimens, and the means we employed were…thorough.”

  “Explanations for failure do us no good, Commander. I am aware of the methods employed. I approved them myself. I know you have worked tirelessly, but we must do better. We have only uncovered greater numbers of low-level conspirators. Whatever is coming, it feels near to me. And we cannot be this ignorant when it comes.”

  “Perhaps the soldiers will be enough to secure the capital and quickly defeat any coup attempt.”

  Vennius sighed. “You don’t believe that, Honorious, no more than I do. That would assume everyone involved in this is a fool. We know that is not the case, if for no other reason than they have eluded our pursuit. The imbeciles we have caught…those at the top have no doubt laughed at our efforts.” He looked up again at the massive structure looming over the sea. He’d asked the Imperatrix yet again to allow him to increase the palace garrison, coming close to outright insubordination in his effort, but she’d refused him cold just as she had each of the other times. He suspected she’d have done so in far less genial terms had they not been friends for so many years. The Imperatrix was highly intelligent and her reputation in battle was without compare, but no one had ever called her a patient woman, nor one who tolerated being nagged by subordinates. She expected to be obeyed, and Vennius had seen the results when she was not.

  “We can increase the number of inquisitors in the field. Or…”

  “No, no…more of what is not working is pointless. We have sufficient resources deployed.” He paused. “We are facing something more complex than we’ve assumed. A Union agent of considerable skill, perhaps a group of agents…and conspirators at a very high level. Dangerously high.” He hesitated again, looking right at Horatius. “Whomever they recruited, whatever officers they have suborned, there is no doubt in my mind they are in positions of power, and far more intelligent and dangerous than the rabble we have rounded up. Perhaps…”

  Vennius held his gaze on his companion, and as he did he felt a tightening in his gut. No matter how he considered it, he couldn’t rationalize the lack of success they’d had. They should have uncovered something more useful by now. Unless someone was sabotaging the effort. Someone close to the investigation.

  He considered Horatius. The officer had a spotless record, as Calavius had said earlier, but he hadn’t served directly under Vennius, not until recently. Vennius hated himself for suspecting a well-respected officer, especially one he’d worked with so closely over the past weeks. But Horatius’s involvement in a coup would explain a lot.

  Was it possible? Had his comrade in the investigation been deliberately steering it away from the truly guilty? His mind rebelled against the very thought, but despite his attempts to banish the idea, it remained, and the more he thought about it, the less certain he felt.

  “Sir?” Horatius stood motionless, looking over at Vennius. “Perhaps what?”

  “Nothing, Commander Horatius. I was just thinking out loud.” Vennius tried to behave normally, but he wasn’t sure he managed it. Whatever Horatius was, the officer wasn’t stupid. Vennius found himself twisted into knots by his new suspicions.

  No, not Horatius. He is as loyal as they come.

  He could see the discomfort in the officer’s expression, and he wondered if Horatius realize what he was thinking. Vennius felt a wave of guilt. He couldn’t imagine a worse disservice than to suspect a loyal officer of being a traitor. But his duty was to the Alliance, and that came before everything else. He didn’t want to believe Horatius could be involved in the conspiracy, but there was no question it would explain his lack of success in uncovering anything substantive.

  “Carry on, Commander Horatius. See to the latest group of arrests. You may proceed without me.” Vennius paused. “I have…other business requiring my attention.”

  “Yes, sir.” Horatius answered obediently, but there was no doubt in Vennius’s mind the officer knew something was wrong. And there was something in his voice… Was it dishonor, anger at the thought of being unfairly suspected? Or was it guilt?

  “Report to my office this evening with your report.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vennius tried to decide if he heard concern in Horatius’s voice. If the officer was guilty, if he’d been part of the plot, he wouldn’t let it show. Vennius was sure of that. Horatius had to be at least concerned now that Vennius was on to him. If Horatius disappeared, if he fled before tonight, Vennius would know. He would know that the one man who had worked with him side by side, who was privy to virtually every action he had taken over the past month, had been spying on him, misdirecting him.

  Making a fool out of him.

  “Very well, Commander Horatius. See to it.” Vennius spun around, even as Horatius began a salute, and he walked down the street, his guards moving into position from where they had stood a few meters away.

  He could hear the soldiers behind him as he walked, and he saw the shadows moving up as one trotted forward on either side of him to take point. They were handpicked, every one of them with a spotless record, but now images of Lentius slipped into his mind, and he wished on some level that he’d allowed his loyal retainer to bring troops from the estate. His suspicions about Horatius had him questioning everything now, worrying whom he could trust.

  Which serves the traitors’ purposes even before they make their move…

  He hated the whole situation, suspecting his officers, moving through the streets of the capital surrounded by a patrol, as though he was on a battlefield. He wanted more than ever before to lay down his stars, resign his offices and return to his estates. But if that had been inconceivable before, it was utterly impossible now. He couldn’t fail in his duty. Not when the future of the Alliance was at stake.

  He took a deep breath, trying to make sense of his conflicting emotions and suspicions. He had to think clearly now. If he made a mistake, the results could be disastrous.

  No…I can’t make any mistakes. Not now…

  * * *

  The shadowy figure remained in the alley, even as Lille moved closer. He wore a cloak, plain gray with no sign of a uniform or military insignia. There was a hood, draped loosely over his head. He was tucked back in the shadows, and Lille had to hold back a laugh. The officer no doubt thought he was being inconspicuous, but as far as the Sector Nine operative was concerned, his contact might as well have worn a flashing light on his head, fanning the flames of suspicion. Lille knew the best way to hide was in the open, looking like he belonged there, not broadcasting the cloak and dagger nature of the proceedings. It always amazed him how stupid people were.

&nb
sp; The Union spy wasn’t surprised at the man’s skittishness, not really, nor even at his amateurish attempts at stealth. The contact was taking an enormous risk meeting him here, even this early in the morning…but Lille had no intention of giving the final go ahead without a face to face encounter. He’d played the games his Alliance contacts had insisted upon, leaving communiques—and sacks of money—in designated places for later pickup, waiting for signals in the middle of the night, and other foolish nonsense. The Alliance wasn’t as adept at the ways of espionage as Sector Nine and the Union, but he’d be damned if the bastards weren’t every bit as paranoid. It was an odd fit for a supposedly fearless warrior race, but he guessed it had more to do with mistrust of foreigners—him—than anything else.

  This time, however, he’d set the rules, and he’d held like iron, refusing to back down. He had been compelled to trust his contact, which already had him uncomfortable. At least drawing the man out in the open displayed some level of commitment, of willingness to take a risk. It wasn’t much, perhaps, upon which to risk everything, but at least it was something.

  Lille had done everything he had promised to do. There was a ship in the Victorum spaceport, ostensibly carrying genetically-grown meats and other foodstuffs. In reality, it was packed to the structural supports with money—gold marks, compressed silver bricks, cylinders of pure platinum, an enormous treasure, in virtually every form currency could be physically transferred untraceably.

  He hadn’t been sure Villieneuve would be able to produce such a sum so quickly, and he suspected his friend and drawn the required metals from just about every place possible, probably even from within the Confederation itself. He found it amusing to think of coin acquired from enemy planets being used to bring about their own ruin. He doubted the Confederation authorities had any true idea of how deeply Sector Nine had penetrated their planets and society. Their own intelligence agency was capable—and Director Holsten was a formidable operative—but the Confeds simply couldn’t match a society that spied on every one of its own citizens from birth to death. Spying was bred into the Union’s DNA, and the Confederation could never hope to match Sector Nine’s effectiveness…or the extreme brutality it so often employed.