by Jay Allan
The money was the final payment he’d negotiated, and its transfer would signify the start of the operation he’d been working on for months, a project of immense complexity, and one that would change the status of the war. It would begin tonight, and if all went as planned, by this time tomorrow, the Alliance would have a new Imperator. And it would be at war with the Confederation.
“Are your people ready to move?” he said abruptly, stopping just around the corner from his contact.
“Is the final payment here?” the man responded, clearly trying to sound in control. Despite the show of calm, Lille could hear the tension in his voice. He’d heard the same tone in virtually every Alliance official he’d spoken with since he’d begun his operation. For the first month, he’d thought it was fear, that the vaunted courage of the warrior nation’s soldiers was a myth, with no more substance than most such claims. But then he’d realized what was truly at play…just how difficult it was for Alliance officers to plot against their own. Almost at once, he came to understand the Palatians, and his handling of the warriors improved dramatically. The culture was simplistic, at least when compared to the manipulative norms he was used to, but there was strength in it, and he realized he had to handle things just right or those he recruited to his purpose would turn on him with an incalculable fury.
“It is. Now, please answer my question. Is everything ready to proceed?” Lille spoke calmly but coldly, projecting as much strength as he could. Dealing with Palatian officers was much like facing off against wild animals. Strength was the only thing they really respected. Or understood.
“Everything is ready. If the funds are delivered, we will begin tonight.” The man didn’t even try to hide his distaste for Lille, but the Sector Nine operative didn’t care. He wasn’t looking for friends among his contacts, just for tools he could use. He needed Alliance ships moving down the Dragon’s Tail as soon as possible, attacking the Confederation’s weak underbelly, taking the pressure off the Union front and drawing off the new battleships that would soon be entering service. He would do whatever it took to see that happen.
He had sought out those he knew were discontented, men and women who were ashamed that the Imperatrix had backed down from confrontation with the Confederation after the destruction of Invictus. He played upon that like a maestro, working the sinews of damaged warrior pride, coaxing the embers of dissatisfaction into roaring flames of anger toward those in power. Toward the Imperatrix. She was old, he suggested. Perhaps she had lost her strength, even her competency. Was blind loyalty to a few old men and women in positions of power more important than service to the Alliance itself? Would they follow those without the strength to lead…follow them to ruin?
Lille hesitated, glancing over at the officer, but only for a few seconds. It went against every instinct of his being to trust anyone, especially an asset that was about to turn traitor to his own. Though, of course, they don’t see it that way. They think they’re saving the Alliance. Or at least that’s what they told themselves. Not that it mattered. There wasn’t any choice. He had to take the gamble.
And he had to do it soon. It had taken longer than expected to get all the pieces in place…and far more funding. He hadn’t expected a stoic race of warriors to be as greedy as they had proven to be. Nor had he anticipated the need to tread quite so carefully with them. The Palatians did not react well to being called liars or unreliable, and the irony of losing their tempers when the man paying them to commit treason suggested they were less than entirely trustworthy seemed utterly lost on them. Of course, they didn’t believe they were traitors. He had handled them better than that. They looked up themselves as the patriots, as those rescuing their nation from the clutches of those who would destroy it. The fact that they were also grabbing Lille’s coin with both fists and moving to give themselves massive amounts of power was yet another strange inconsistency.
“In the spaceport. A freighter listed as carrying foodstuffs from Pindarus. All in precious metals, as agreed. Plus, a bonus. Ten percent more than the specified amount. For contingencies.” Contingencies…bah. Just an extra bribe, most of which will end up in your pocket. He knew his contact was the key to the entire operation…and he was just as aware he was creating the wealthiest man in the Alliance, and hopefully in another day, the most powerful.
The man nodded. Then he turned suddenly and looked all around. Lille did the same, but he already knew they were alone. The Alliance was an early-rising culture, but it was insanely predawn now, even for old school warriors. The streets were empty, save for the increased levels of guards, and Lille had been careful to schedule the meeting between patrols. The Palatians were diligent and dedicated, but they were a little straightforward in their approaches to things, and it hadn’t seemed to occur to anyone to randomize the times that guards passed various locations.
“All right,” the Palatian said. “Assuming what you told me of the…shipment…is correct, we will begin tonight.” The man’s voice was firm, but there was something else there, a flutter of uncertainty perhaps. It was almost a sin in Alliance culture to show fear, but Lille knew the evening’s operation would be difficult for any Palatian officer, and that disgrace and death would be the cost of failure.
A power grab in the Union didn’t require quite as much window-dressing and soul-soothing nonsense. The ability to seize a higher position was all that was necessary as justification. But these Alliance fools needed to be convinced the selfish lunge for their own power was really a patriotic act, a sacrifice almost. It was tiresome, and it had made the whole effort far longer and more complex.
“Go then. Verify the contents of the ship…and then see to any last-minute details. Everything must go according to plan.”
“There will be no problems. I have arranged everything perfectly. The city is on alert, but I have more than one surprise for those planning the defense.”
Lille would have made a face, but years of practice at discipline caught if before it came out.
That’s one way the Alliance officers are like our own political masters. They’re arrogant as hell…
He nodded, and then he glanced around quickly before setting out down the street. It was time for him to get out of sight. He would be no help in all that had to be done today and tonight. All he could do now was hide, and wait. The day promised to be an auspicious one, and getting himself caught could wreck everything before it even got underway.
Chapter Six
Imperial Palace
Victorum, Alliance Capital City
Planet Palatia, Astara II
Year 61 (310 AC)
“You did not touch your evening meal, Your Supremacy. May I bring you a plate? Perhaps some soup. Or biscuits and fruit?” The valet leaned forward in a bow, his reverential respect for the woman he was addressing utterly clear in both his tone and posture.
“No, Poscuta, nothing. I am not hungry.” The woman was old, her skin loose, giving away the full extent of her almost nine decades. Yet the eyes staring back at the servant were still bright, ice blue and crystal clear. Her thick mane of long silver hair was pulled back in a loose braid. There was hardness in her gaze, and wisdom. And, at least for the valet, a man who had served her faithfully for more years than she cared to recall, she suspected there was, just perhaps, the slightest touch of softness detectable in her otherwise firm tone. Age had softened her, dulled the fiery aggression of her youth…and it had taught her to appreciate true loyalty.
“Some tea, perhaps?”
Her impulse was to refuse again, but then she said simply, “Very well, Poscuta. Some tea.” It was easier to take something than to continue to refuse.
“Yes, Your Supremacy. At once.” The servant bowed lower, holding the position for a few seconds before he sprang up and hurried from the room.
The woman was accustomed to such servitude and deep respect from those around her. Indeed, for much of her long life, Flavia Augustulus Junia Grachus had exercised almost unimaginable p
ower, first as a leader of Palatia’s rebellion and then as one of the Alliance’s most celebrated admirals…and for the past twenty-one years, as Imperatrix, the head of state of Palatia and all its subject worlds. She had also been a slave once, a lifetime ago, one who had endured immense suffering and abuse as a young woman. Memories of those bitter days still cut through her like a blade and fueled the rage that had driven her through her wars, and still lived inside her to this day, despite the mellowing of a lifetime’s weariness.
She stood up, more abruptly than she’d intended, and she stumbled slightly, feeling a flush of bitterness at the lightness in her head and the weakness in her body. She had been a warrior, once, a tireless crusader, and in her prime she had led thousands into battle and laid waste to all who had oppressed her people, bringing death and slavery to those who had been the masters. She feared no enemy, none save time. No warriors had ever bested her, no fleets nor legions of soldiers had defeated her, yet age marched on, and she was powerless before its onslaught. Her mind clung to its usual sharpness, but the body that carried it, and the energy that powered it, were waning.
My time is almost at an end. Soon, I will have to choose one to succeed me…
She walked across the room, toward the great glass doors, swung open and tied back, the ocean winds blowing the light draperies into the room. She pulled the robe she wore tighter against the breeze. The sea air refreshed her, and it made her feel awake, pushing back the fatigue of age, just a bit. That was reason enough to endure a touch of coldness. She’d ordered the doors to remain open, ignoring the ocean chill at this time of year, and also the overwrought warnings of both her doctors and her security teams.
They would lock me in a vault if I allowed it…and in a hospital connected to a hundred machines…
Her age had become a liability, she knew, even a danger to the Alliance. The prospect of selecting her successor was a daunting one, with no clear choice extant. Tarkus Vennius was the likeliest candidate, but she’d known the old warrior for decades, and she understood just how much he detested the idea. Vennius was a creature of duty, and she had no doubt he would accept the appointment if it was thrust upon him, but he would never campaign for it, or call upon his friends and allies to support him.
That was unfortunate, especially since Tarkus was the best choice, a true Palatian warrior, in whom lived on the spirit that had built the Alliance. Her people needed such strength and stability, especially now. She knew there was discord spreading, rippling waves of disorder that would have been unthinkable even a few years before. She understood the pleas of her guards to take greater precautions, but she, who had fought countless battles, been wounded half a dozen times, struggled against terrible adversaries…she would not, in the twilight of her life, allow fear of some imagined assassin to control her actions.
She stepped through the center door, out onto the stone terrace. It was broad, the floor an interlaced pattern of gray and white granite, quite decorative, at least by the often sterile standards of old Palatia. The rails were a heavy balustrade, and below, the surf crashed hard into the jagged rocks.
The palace stood on the edge of Victorum, in the center of one hundred manicured hectares along the rocky coastline, on the extreme north of the city. It was a large structure, looming boldly over the jagged cliffs and the solid bedrock of its massive foundations, built by her predecessor more as a fortress than a palace. She had tried to resist the trends away from the ascetic ways of the early Alliance, yet she had to admit her resolve had been less than total in that regard. The edifice owed more of its current status to her indulgences than she liked to admit, the glass doors and broad terrace overlooking the sea a prime example. Power wore away at discipline, even as the tides did to the great stone cliffs. Years of conquest had insulated Palatia from the front lines, and the harshness of the stoic structure had gradually given way to more comfortable appointments.
Softness. You decry the waning of the Alliance’s warrior spirit, yet here you are, savoring the ocean breeze, staring off into the light of the moon, watching it dance on the rippling waves. Is your heart still that of a warrior? Or are you just an old woman, slipping into dotage?
She was troubled. The weakness she saw in herself was rife throughout the Alliance, and in far greater measure. The Patricians and Citizens were warriors still, raised in accordance with the old dictum. The way is the way. Probs still strove to attain full Citizenship, a goal that almost always required distinguished military service. Adolescent Palatians still completed the Ordeal, enduring torment and suffering to prove their worthiness for a life as warriors. And many still died in the effort, young, not yet men and women, deep in the wilderness…the traditional culling of the weak, even from the ranks of the highest-placed families.
Yet those same young fighters had come of age in a strong Alliance, a victorious one that had conquered system after system, and enjoyed the spoils of those triumphs. They were wealthy, and they knew only success in battle. Defeat seemed an impossibility to them. They had become arrogant and grasping. The Alliance was passing from the control of those who remembered the bitterness of defeat and servitude to a new generation, one that understood only dominance. She wondered if her beloved nation, and its demanding philosophy and culture, could survive the transition.
Or if it should…
It had been three years since she’d sent Invictus to probe the Confederation’s defenses, and its resolve. Three years since she’d allowed herself to listen to the ambassador from the Union, to his entreaties that the Alliance join in the war against the Confederation. It wasn’t the way, to side with other powers, to trust to allies. The Alliance had stood alone, always, viewing all others as potential adversaries. That had been the way, and it had led to six decades of uninterrupted victory.
But that time had come to an end. She’d known that then, when she’d signed the orders that had sent Katrine Rigellus and one thousand of the Alliance’s best to their deaths, as she knew it now. Confidence in its warrior ethos, in the power of its arms, had been the core of the Alliance’s strength, but it’s half century of conquest had finally brought it into contact with larger powers. It was shameful, perhaps, to acknowledge that the Alliance might be unable to defeat either the Confederation or the Union by itself, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. And the prospect of facing both, or one of them gorged fat on the spoils of the other, was a nightmare…one that could destroy the Alliance if she failed to exercise care and steer her people wisely through the current conflict between the two.
She had been weak three years before. She had given in to calls to join the Union’s war, accepted the demands to plan an invasion of the Confederation. She’d let herself be persuaded that an Alliance that did not take the chance to seize part of the Confederation was destined for marginalization.
But she had set her own boundaries, decreed that Invictus would test the enemy defenses before an invasion could commence, and in the aftermath of that disastrous mission, she had held to her proclamation and turned down the continuing Union entreaties, maintaining Alliance neutrality, even in the face of considerable disagreement among her own officers and people.
She had even expelled the Union ambassadors, convinced they were more spies than diplomats, but she knew the influences were still there. She’d allowed Commander Vennius to execute the pair of operatives he’d found, but she didn’t fool herself any more than her venerable fleet commander did. Those who’d been caught were only a tithe of the agents the Union had sent, and she was certain the others were at work even now, plotting, planning, seeking to exploit the dissension her own decisions had caused.
There was Union coin too, so much that it was impossible not to be aware of its presence. She knew such things wore away at the stoicism that lay at the core of Palatian culture, that there was unrest, an unthinkable state of affairs in the early years of the Alliance. Officers in her armed forces were allowing themselves to be tempted by foreign bribes, something she’d ha
ve thought inconceivable five years before.
She was angry at the Union interference, but she couldn’t imagine it was a true danger, one that threatened the Alliance in any core way. Her belief in her people was too strong, forged through long years of battle and sacrifice. But what would happen to the Alliance in twenty years, when she and the rest of her brethren, those who had built the great nation, were gone? Or in forty years, when Vennius and his peers were all dead as well. Who would replace them? And what would become of the Alliance she had dedicated her life to create and protect?
Her muscles tensed. Her battle reflexes were still sharp, even as the body that carried them slowed. She turned and stepped back through the door, her eyes darting around, moving to the sound. It was Poscuta, of course, back with the tea. She had expected her valet to return, of course, but a lifetime of war left its marks, and she doubted she’d ever be able to truly relax and let her guard down.
She looked over, and she had to suppress the hint of a smile when she saw the servant setting the silver tray down on the table. There was a pot, large enough for a state banquet, and surrounding it there were small plates—cookies, biscuits, even a small pile of tiny sandwiches, anything, she suspected, the valet had imagined he could pass off as a normal accompaniment to tea.
He’s determined to get me to eat something…
She had become quite attached to Poscuta over the years, more so than was perhaps proper for the Imperatrix of the Alliance. She had even offered to free him from his bonded service, to set him up in a profession of his own, but he had begged to remain with her. She had acquiesced, perhaps with a touch of relief, as she was a creature of habit and was glad to retain his service. But she had also secured positions for his children in prestigious military units. With any fortune at all, they, the son and daughter of an offworld servant, would one day become Citizens of the Alliance.