Fortress of Lies

by J. Steven York

  “I can’t say I know you well enough to judge that. I had my reasons.”

  “Beyond money?”

  “Reason enough, but it was a chance to give it to those bastards on New Canton who screwed me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Clancy waved his hand like he was swatting a mosquito. “Long story. They impounded my scheduled cargo. It takes a lot of C-Bills to lift this big tub, and I can’t afford to go running empty.”

  “You’ve got paying passengers now, Captain. Do you mind passengers?”

  “Machine parts, they don’t talk back, complain about the chow, or try to tell me how to run my ship.”

  “It sounds like they also barely pay the bills, Captain. Tell me, how’d you like to sell your ship?”

  “Sell? The Tyrannos Rex?”

  “What’s an Excalibur worth these days? Seven hundred fifty mil?”

  “The Rex, she’s worth more. Like your buddy Ulysses says, she ain’t what she seems.”

  “Nine hundred mil?”

  “She’s not for sale.”

  “A Gigabill? Surely she’s not worth more than that.”

  “She ain’t for sale!”

  “Mind you, I’d want to hire you and your entire crew to stay on.”

  “She ain’t for sale, blue blood. Some things ain’t got a price.”

  “That hasn’t been my experience, Captain. Besides, you’ve got bills to pay, and once we leave, you’re right back where you started, except that you’re no longer welcome on New Canton.”

  “She’s not for sale.” He leaned back and licked his lips. “She’s for hire though, if the price is right.”

  Aaron smiled. Negotiations had opened. “I’d need a long-term contract. You give me reasonable numbers and I won’t say no.”

  “Contract? To haul what to where?”

  “To haul me, to wherever.”

  “This isn’t some bloody pleasure yacht, Sandoval. The grub is good, but plain, and the beds are soft, but the cabins are small. You think you can live with that?”

  “I’ve had worse, Captain, believe it or not. The accommodations will do for now, but I’ll be putting in some new ones as soon as circumstances allow.”

  “You ain’t hacking into my ship.”

  “In a cargo hold then. One for my quarters, one for ’Mechs and vehicles, one for supplies and consumables. Maybe you can still haul some cargo on the side.”

  Clancy looked skeptical. “And I get to haul you all over the Sphere?”

  “That’s the plan. Good pay, dependable work.”

  “What about the ship?”

  “Ulysses says she’s good. So do you.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed. “She could be better. I got lots of ideas I just ain’t been able to afford. Better weapons, armor, upgraded systems all over. I take you on board, half the galaxy is going to be gunning for us. I got to know we’ll have what it takes to survive.”

  “That and more. No expenses spared.” Aaron extended his hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

  Clancy just looked at his hand. “I’ll sleep on it and get back to you.” He turned toward the door, then hesitated. “Until then, where are we going, Duck?”

  6

  DUKE SANDOVAL LIVES!—In an exclusive holorecording obtained by an INN Courier-News correspondent on Liao, the Duke himself appeared to deny erroneous reports of his own death. Expert analysis of the holo leaves little doubt that it is genuine, and the content makes it clear that it was recorded after his alleged death.

  Sandoval reports that he survived the crash of his flagship with only “minor injuries.” He described the incident as a “bungled assassination attempt, indicative of the disorder and lack of central control that has infected Prefecture V, and now Prefecture VI as well. While I must return to Prefecture V and continue the struggle there against the Liao incursion, the threatened people of Prefecture VI should know that when the time is right, I will return to their aid.”

  —Interstellar News Network

  Fortress-class DropShip Madras

  SwordSworn Fleet Staging Area, near Pleione jump point

  Prefecture V, The Republic

  20 October 3134

  Erik Sandoval floated down the corridor of the DropShip, warning Klaxons echoing in his ears as he pulled himself hand-over-hand toward the bridge. More experienced crew members, easily identifiable by their orange coveralls, rocketed past him in all directions, gracefully pushing off at one end to sail the length of a corridor, bouncing skillfully from wall to wall in a zigzag pattern, or simply scrambling along them like hyperactive spiders.

  Erik was still getting his space legs, and could never hope to be as proficient as these people who almost lived in space. He was content to hand-walk along, being passed like a ninety-year-old man on the hoverway.

  “Unscheduled JumpShip arriving in two minutes,” the captain’s amplified voice echoed through the ship. “All hands to emergency stations. This is no drill.”

  This was another of the unfortunate results of the collapse of the HPG network. Now, unless arrangements were made far in advance, every incoming ship was “unscheduled,” and therefore a matter of concern, given the current state of war.

  The ship could be friend, foe, or neither—and even if it was an enemy, the old traditions might allow it to slide past without shots being exchanged. Still, the arrival of any unexpected ship created tension, and was cause for a full alert, just in case.

  The armored bridge doors were just ahead. A marine stood at guard outside, assault rifle across his chest, back rigid, feet held to the deck by Velcro tabs. Erik didn’t envy him. It was work to keep your body at attention without gravity. A full watch could be agony.

  The human body liked to assume something called the “neutral position” in space, but to the military mind, that was more appropriate for a floating corpse than a trained soldier. So “attention” was still the order of the day.

  The marine recognized him and saluted—another formality that wouldn’t have been practical for a floating guard. Erik glanced at the weapon—a standard model except for the blue stripes on the barrel, stock, and magazine, indicating it carried fragmenting ammo that would shatter before penetrating the ship’s hull or ferro-glass windows.

  Erik held his security pass near the lock, and the door slid open. He slid through the blackout curtains and felt the elastic closures snap shut behind him.

  The lights on the bridge were dim and red, to protect the crew’s night vision. The bridge crew was strapped into acceleration couches. Only Captain Ricco floated free, watching a computer display that Erik knew showed the point where the incoming ship would shortly appear.

  In one of those quantum-mechanical paradoxes associated with hyperdrive travel, while they knew where, and approximately when, the ship would arrive, it actually hadn’t left yet. The trip, from their point of view, was instantaneous. It was one of those technical curiosities Erik had long ago stopped trying to wrap his head around.

  The captain held his position with one hand, hanging from a grab bar over his head. He looked over at Erik. “Could be a big one, Commander. Big enough to be a threat.”

  Erik felt his stomach tighten. He knew it was probably nothing. Even if it wasn’t, his little fleet awaiting transport numbered six full DropShips—more than enough to take care of itself. Still, it was as though the fall of the HPG network had filled the universe with shadows, from which they were always waiting for something to jump out. It was getting tiresome.

  “There it is,” said the navigator, studying a holodisplay floating above her console. “Merchant class, one DropShip attached.”

  Erik felt himself relax a bit. Merchants were normally just that, hauling cargo and virtually unarmed.

  “Wait a minute,” said the navigator. “DropShip is a big one, military—an Excalibur—and I’m not getting a SwordSworn IFF signal. I don’t know whose it is.”

  Erik frowned. The Excalibur was an elliptical DropShip, th
e biggest military vessel of its type, capable of transporting a full combined-arms regiment in its three huge bays. In addition, it carried enough armor and offensive weaponry to be a formidable threat on its own.

  The captain pulled himself over behind the navigator and ran his fingers through his blond, close-cropped hair as he studied the display. He smiled. “I know that ship. It’s not military anymore, it’s a freighter conversion. It’s Tyrannos Rex, Gus Clancy’s ship. Jeri, open a ship-to-ship channel.”

  He turned, and a flat-screen display in the middle of the bridge lit up, displaying an older man with collar-length gray hair and a beard.

  “Hey, Gus,” said the captain, “how’s business?”

  “Hey, Ricco, business is, surprisingly, pretty good. You should pull out the good china. I got nobility aboard. Paying passenger.”

  “Doesn’t sound like your style. Who is it?”

  “Duke Aaron Sandoval, the high and mighty Lord Governor himself.”

  Despite himself, Erik gasped. Once again his emotions were complex. Since receiving the erroneous reports of Aaron’s death, he had publicly downplayed the possibility, but privately acted on the assumption that his uncle was gone. He’d been working on plans to keep the SwordSworn from falling apart, to salvage what he could of the action against House Liao, and of course, to gain personal control of as much of his uncle’s assets and power base as possible. Now, in a stroke, all those half-formed plans were swept away.

  Yet he was relieved as well. Rationally, those plans had little hope of success, at least not without striking alliances with other parties, notably other members of the Sandoval family. Though Aaron’s death would have given him the opportunity to have everything he ever wanted, it was far more likely that he would have ended up with nothing. Or perhaps with a knife in the back.

  The captain’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. The bridge crew members were all looking at each other, grinning, but Erik wasn’t ready to believe it yet. He leaned in front of the captain. “Are you sure? There were reports he was killed on New Canton when his DropShip crashed.”

  Clancy scowled out of the screen, his eyes narrowed. “Who in blazes is asking? Guess you must be SwordSworn or you wouldn’t be on Ricco’s bridge, but you ain’t nothing to me.”

  “Commander Erik Sandoval-Groell.”

  Clancy nodded. “Family, then. Guess that gives you the right. He’s got a few holes in his hide, but he put his thumb out on New Canton and I was going his way. Picked up a couple of his hired hands, too. Never too busy to help somebody who actually works for a living.”

  Erik felt his jaw tighten. This Clancy was annoyingly impertinent. Maybe he was intentionally digging at Erik. In any case, it was working.

  “Is he conscious? Can I talk to him?”

  “Hell if I know, and even if he is, I don’t know if Lord high-and-mighty is taking calls. Reckon I’ll ask him.” The screen went blank.

  “Wait,” sputtered Erik, but the channel was already closed. “Call him back.”

  “That, Commander,” said Captain Ricco, apologetically, “would only annoy him. I’ve dealt with this guy before. He’s all right, but he’s not much for protocol. You’ve got to do things his way.”

  Lord almighty, how did Uncle Aaron hook up with this lout? He must be badly injured, or he’d have thrown the man out an airlock long ago.

  A light flashed on the navigator’s console. “Call from the Tyrannos Rex. Putting it on-screen.”

  The screen lit up, and Erik was delighted to see Aaron’s face; bandaged, unshaven, and battered, but still recognizable. “Uncle, you’re alive!”

  “Thanks for the update, Erik. I’ve traveled all the way from New Canton for that INN news flash.”

  “We’d heard reports you were dead—that your ship had an accident on takeoff.”

  “Except for the ‘dead’ part and the ‘accident’ part, that’s reasonably accurate. The ship was sabotaged. A clumsy assassination attempt—the messy sort that kills nearly everyone but the target.” He sighed. “We lost the Kiwanda with all hands. Ulysses Paxton, Deena Onan and I managed to escape in my ’Mech; I’ll be needing to raid your parts stores to get it operable again. If there’s a system I didn’t manage to damage or overload, I’m not aware of it.

  “As for the mission, obviously, we won’t be getting any assistance from New Canton. Quite the contrary: they’re groveling to House Liao now.” His eyes drifted away from the camera for a moment. “Judging from the number of our DropShips here, the news from New Aragon is either very good or very bad.”

  “New Aragon is secure, Uncle. Liao has completely withdrawn from the system. We’ve left a token force, mainly symbolic, and returned security to the local military. In addition, they’ve pledged a regiment of infantry, two light armored companies, and a few IndustrialMechs to the coalition forces, with more to come as they rebuild.”

  “Well, there’s that, then. Erik, this coalition is now more important than ever. Without an accord with New Canton and Prefecture VI, every world that signs on is vital. This can’t wait for me to heal. We have to work twice as hard, and we have to start now.”

  “Uncle. The news about the Kiwanda is regrettable, but not unexpected. I’m delighted you’re alive. I’ll have the captain prepare quarters for you. You’re well enough to be moved?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re coming here. I’ve contracted the Tyrannos Rex to act as my personal flagship. This brush with death has opened my eyes, Erik. It’s a new age we’re living in, and a great many things are going to be changing.”

  The screen blanked. Erik frowned. Aaron was hardly back from the dead five minutes, and already he was ordering Erik around like a dog. We’re going to have to have a talk about that.

  Erik glanced to one side, and realized that Captain Ricco was staring at him.

  “What’s up, Commander? A SwordSworn DropShip isn’t good enough for the Duke any more?”

  Erik shook his head. “I’m as puzzled as you are. I suppose the only way to find out is to go over there and ask the Duke myself. Have a Battle Taxi made ready for launch.”

  “Aye. It’ll be ready by the time you get to the bay.”

  “This Captain Clancy—who is he?”

  The captain shrugged. “If by that, you mean his background, I don’t have a clue. I’ve never understood how a lowborn ended up owning an Excalibur, either. But he’s a tough old bird, and he runs a good ship, if that’s what you mean. Beyond that, all I can say is . . . well, he’s a character.”

  Despite his fearsome appearance, Doc, which was the only name by which anyone on the ship seemed to know him, seemed to know his medicine. Aaron had avoided complications and seemed to be healing well. His two staff members, likewise, had been well taken care of. One more reason that putting his faith in this ship seemed well founded.

  Since he awoke, he’d spent most of his time consulting with Deena and Ulysses, and writing dispatches and orders to be distributed by the makeshift courier system that had been set up in the aftermath of the HPG failure. Some were bound for the capitol in Tikonov, or his palace there. Others went to his various bases and field commanders, and to outposts of his industrial and financial empire. And then there were the ever-important press releases.

  There was a great deal of business to catch up on, and many changes to be made, but the dispatches took on even more importance now. Rumors had gone out reporting his death. That could destabilize his entire Prefecture, and throw his empire into chaos.

  He had to make his presence felt, as soon and as widely as possible. He also knew that he was going to have to go public with his allegiance to House Davion. That was a dangerous move—one that would change his status from that of rogue Lord Governor, one who might return to the fold, to that of traitor to The Republic. But he knew that he’d already waited too long.

  Even now, he was tearing up letters to key officials and replacing them with audio recordings, which would provide more tangib
le assurance that he was alive. He’d considered including video as well, but decided, given his appearance, that it might do more harm than good. The language of the messages was carefully chosen—peppered with mention of current events to date them past the assassination attempts. His rhetoric, without mentioning House Davion, also failed to mention The Republic. It was a first step to a more direct declaration of his loyalties.

  He couldn’t afford to look weak, and he certainly couldn’t leave doubts about his health or control over the SwordSworn. He was entering a time when appearances were everything.

  Another class of dispatches went out to brokers and agents on the worlds he planned to visit, authorizing purchasing of fixtures and materials to be installed on the Tyrannos Rex. He also needed to hire workers to install his improvements, and staff to replace those lost on New Canton.

  Finally, there was the most important dispatch of all—one with no signature, which described the location of a number of secret, numbered accounts, each containing a large quantity of untraceable cash. This he entrusted to Deena, and sent her to covertly deliver it via the first available transport. She would be traveling under an assumed identity—one he had previously obtained for a large sum of money, in anticipation of just such an occasion.

  That left one matter to deal with before his troublesome charge, Erik, arrived. He called Captain Clancy to his cabin. Clancy took his time arriving, and made it clear upon his arrival that he wasn’t at Aaron’s beck and call. With the skill of a longtime spacer, he parked himself in midair just inside Aaron’s cabin door, arms crossed over his narrow chest.

  As soon as Doc approved it, Aaron had been moved to one of the largest officer’s cabins on the Tyrannos Rex. Aaron had heard that the captain’s quarters were slightly larger, but he wasn’t going to make an issue of it.

  By Aaron’s usual standards, the room might as well have been a monk’s cell, and taking over Clancy’s quarters wouldn’t have improved the situation enough to make it worth the bother. Aaron’s cabin was three by three by two and a half meters, plus a small extension for a compact private bathroom and a minute closet. Most of the furnishings were designed to fold into the wall: a bed that might be big enough for two very friendly people, a table with two folding chairs, and a desk with a com station.