by Jay Allan
“Don’t worry about Chen, Admiral. If you are able to bring the Caliphate and Europan contingents over, I can promise you the CAC forces.” There was an icy coldness to his voice. Udinov didn’t know what his new ally was planning, and he was fairly certain he didn’t want to know.
“Very well, Lu,” he said. “I will contact Peltier and Samar and advise you of their statuses.” He looked around, seeing that the room was still deserted. “I better not risk coming here again, but I will send you a messenger if I have anything noteworthy to pass along. Meanwhile, I will request that Admiral Compton convene a meeting of the senior commanders of the fleet to discuss next steps. With any luck, we will have the Caliphate and Europans supporting us by that time. Then we can force the admiral’s hand.”
Zhang just nodded. Forcing the admiral’s hand wasn’t what he had in mind.
But it’ a good first step.
* * *
Harmon walked into Petersburg’s wardroom, nodding to several of the officers present. He’d spent the entire day reviewing the ship’s weapons stocks, and now he was here to relax. At least that’s what he hoped they all thought.
“Hello,” he said, the portable AI clipped to his belt translating his speech into flawless Russian. Most of the officers in sight were clearly ethnic Russians and other Slavs. There were a few of Indian descent as well, though they were a clear minority.
The Russian-Indian Confederacy was an odd conglomeration. Most of the Earth’s other Superpowers had come about through the aggregation of similar ethnic groups or the alignment of geographic realities during the Unification Wars. But the RIC had been a product of military, not political, reality.
The Indians had found themselves caught between the Caliphate and the newly-established Central Asian Combine, and they suffered devastating losses when those two powers fought each other. Only the assistance of a newly resurgent Russia had saved even a segment of the old Indian subcontinent from depopulation and apportionment between the CAC and the Caliphate. In the end, about half of what had once been India joined the new Russian Superpower. The Indians weren’t given the same status as the Russians, but they weren’t subjects either—more like junior partners. The ranks of the navy, especially the officers, had long been dominated by Russians, though the ground forces were more evenly divided between the two groups.
“Max, welcome.” one of the officers said, with a heavy accent, but without the assistance of an AI. He looked around the table at the other officers. “This is Captain Max Harmon. He is here checking on our weapons stocks.” He looked over at Harmon. “He is going to get us some of those Alliance heavy warheads. I promised him I can attach them to our Bekuskan missiles.”
“I said I’d try, Vanya,” Harmon answered, smiling as he did. “No promises. We’re running low on those fleetwide.”
“We cannot fire promises at the enemy, can we?” Vanya turned toward his comrades and spoke Russian to them for a few seconds, and then they all roared with laughter.
“Come, Max, sit. Have a drink.” Vanya gestured toward a chair and pushed a glass and a tall pitcher across the table. “It is…” He said something in Russian, and the officers around the table burst into laughter once again. “Moose piss, my Alliance friend…that is as closely as I can translate. It is homemade, and to call it vodka would be a sacrilege. But it is what we have, so we drink, no?”
Harmon nodded and walked across the room, taking the offered seat. He shuddered to think of what was in the noxious substance in the pitcher, but he knew RIC custom well enough to realize he had no choice. Besides, the more they all drank, the likelier it was tongues would loosen.
He grabbed the pitcher and poured himself a tall drink. Then he looked around the table with a smile and downed it in one gulp to the loud cheers of his new acquaintances. He slapped his hand down on the table. “Moose piss indeed, my friend,” he said, reaching for the pitcher and pouring himself another before handing it around the table.
“Will you join us,” Vanya said, gesturing toward the cards on the table.
What is the game?” Harmon knew what they were playing, but feigning a bit of ignorance about gambling could only help him.
“Is called Vint. Is very old Russian game.” Vanya’s accent was growing thicker with every glass he drained. “We could teach you.”
“You could…” Harmon looked around the table. “…or we could play a true gambler’s game…”
He could feel the eyes around the table focusing on him.
“And what would we gamble for, Captain?” It was the slightly sterile tone of his AI translating one of the other officer’s remark. “Currency is of little value to us now.”
“Well…if you are willing to accept my word as an officer, I will stake something rare indeed. I can’t help you with vodka, but I have a bottle of bourbon back in my quarters on Midway. My last bottle. The real thing, twenty years old, direct from Kentucky back on Earth. Cost a month’s pay. It goes down like honey, but even if you Russians can’t appreciate it, you can get almost anything if you trade it to some officers on the CAC ships.” He glanced around the table, looking for reactions—any clues about contact with CAC personnel.
“And what would you have us put up against it?” Vanya asked.
Harmon smiled. “Well, you could stop pretending you don’t all have something decent stashed somewhere and dig out those vodka bottles. It’s not gambling unless you put up something you don’t want to lose, is it?”
The officers leaned in and spoke among themselves for a few seconds. Finally, Vanya turned back toward Harmon. “Very well, Max my friend. We each bought a case of extraordinary vodka before we reported to Petersburg. That was two years ago, but we have been frugal. We will put up a bottle each. We play until only one man remains, and the winner takes all.”
Harmon smiled. “Agreed.” He reached out and picked up the deck of cards. “Now slide down that pitcher again. I may have to get used to this moose piss if you sharks strip me of the last of my bourbon.”
* * *
“I suspect Captain Harmon has a greater purpose than simply organizing weapons supplies.” Udinov was in his quarters watching the Alliance officer on his screen. Harmon was walking down a corridor from the main magazine to the central lift. He wasn’t doing anything suspicious—at least Udinov hadn’t managed to catch him involved in anything that was remotely out of line with his stated reason for being on Petersburg. But that didn’t allay the admiral’s concerns.
“I am inclined to agree, Admiral,” replied the officer standing next to Udinov. Anton Stanovich had been the Russian admiral’s aide for years. Stanovich’s family had long been retainers to Udinov’s, and young Anton had gone to the naval academy with the express purpose of replacing his father at Udinov’s side. “Though I can offer no proof to support that assertion.”
Udinov stared at the image of Harmon, but his mind was drifting, trying to rationalize what was going on. He knew the Alliance officer was very close to Admiral Compton, filling much the same role that Stanovich did for him. “Nor can I, Anton. Not yet at least.”
Harmon had been spending a fair amount of time socializing with Petersburg’s officers. Indeed, he’d become quite the sensation, highly sought after for his expertise in poker. He’d become quite popular since he’d won a stash of high quality vodka at poker and then immediately shared it with his new acquaintances in a bit of a drunken blowout.
There was nothing particularly suspicious about any of that on its face, but Udinov had dug a little deeper, accessing whatever information he could on Harmon. Aside from a spotless service record—and a mother who was another of the Alliance’s top admirals—Harmon had seen service with both Compton and Augustus Garret. It was all interesting information, and further evidence that Max Harmon was an extraordinary young officer who had Terrance Compton’s complete trust. But none of it set off any alarms. Not until his people managed to gain access to his personal files.
Max Harmon was a decorate
d officer, one of the Alliance’s best by any account. But he’d rarely taken shore leave, preferring to remain aboard ship, spending time alone or with his friends and shipmates. He was far likelier to stay in his quarters reading than to seek out the company of others, and he’d tended to avoid any formal functions as well, unless attendance was mandatory. He had a few close friends, but little social contact beyond that.
He’s shy, Udinov thought. An introvert. And yet he comes to a ship belonging to another power, where another language is spoken, one he needs an AI to understand, and he goes to the wardroom and introduces himself—and sits down and plays cards with a bunch of strangers. And two days later he is the talk of the ship. No, that doesn’t quite make sense. Not if he’s here just to organize our weapon stores. It’s got to be more than that. He’s here to gather information. That means Compton suspects something is going on.
But nothing was going on, not yet at least. Udinov has listened to Zhang’s concerns, and he’d seen enough truth in them to take steps to prepare. But Udinov’s first action would be to discuss the future with Compton, to urge the admiral to convene a strategy session as soon as possible. He hoped the matter could be settled with words, that pressure from him and the other contingent commanders would sway the Alliance admiral.
Nevertheless, the fact that Compton was already clearly concerned suggested that perhaps Zhang was correct. If Compton wasn’t planning to impose a course of action, regardless of what the rest of the admirals think, why would he have his number one aide over here sniffing around? Why would he feel he needed to spy on me?
“Anton,” Udinov said, speaking softly even though they were alone, “I want you to stay close to Captain Harmon. Talk to some of the men who’ve played cards with him. Invite him to a special game. Feel him out and report back to me with anything you discover…even if it’s only your gut feel.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Stanovich snapped to attention. “At once.” The officer bowed his head for an instant, and then he turned and walked out the door.
Udinov’s eyes dropped back to the screen. The ship’s AI was tracking Harmon, following him around the ship, switching cameras as the Alliance officer moved. He was in the lift now, heading back to deck 8, probably to the wardroom again. By all accounts, Harmon’s work on Petersburg was done. He should have left hours before, heading for the next vessel on his list. But he was hesitating, making excuses to remain. To keep spying on me…
Udinov flipped on his com unit. “Sergei, I need you to do something for me,” he said softly, quietly.
“Certainly, Admiral,” came the crisp reply. Sergei Rostov had commanded Petersburg for the five years Udinov had flown his flag from the battleship. The two worked seamlessly together, almost like a machine.
“I want to keep Captain Harmon onboard for several days…without him knowing he is being detained. Perhaps you can come up with some issues in the magazine, possibly sabotage some of the ordnance, make it appear to be damaged. You can ask that he inspect all of it, that he request additional supplies from Admiral Compton.” Udinov paused for a few seconds. “Something like that. You can flesh it out a bit.”
“Yes, sir. I am sure I can come up with something plausible.” There was a short pause then: “And if the ruse is unsuccessful—if he attempts to leave despite my efforts—do I allow him to go? Or should I have him detained?”
Udinov hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of the outright abduction of Compton’s number one aide. But letting him off Petersburg while things were undecided wasn’t the most appealing option either. He stared down at the com, and finally he spoke softly, grimly. “Then arrest him.”
“Yes, sir.” Rostov’s tone suggested he understood very well the import of Udinov’s orders.
“And Sergei?”
“Yes, Admiral?”
“If it comes to that, I need you to be discrete. Make sure the men involved are extremely reliable…and able to keep their mouths shut. No witnesses. And search Captain Harmon from his hair to the bottom of his feet. If he hangs on to some kind of com unit, all hell will break loose.” Another pause. “Understand?”
“Understood, sir.”
Chapter Six
Command Unit Gamma 9736
The old network had slowly come to life. Not all of it, not even most—but enough. The sensors swept through space, searching, watching. Data was flowing in from ancient scanning devices. For weeks the input had shown nothing, no sign of the enemy. They had disappeared, vanished into the depths of space. But now there had been contact.
It was an old scanner, ancient beyond imagining, from the days before the old ones disappeared, before Command Unit Gamma 9736 had been created. Before, even, the Regent had been activated. Indeed, the scanner dated from the early days of the Imperium, when the old ones still used primitive fusion power, as the enemy did. It circled a great gas giant, one particularly rich in tritium, the vital fuel of nuclear fusion.
It was small, low-powered, simple in design, yet after so many long ages, it still functioned. It was also stealthy, using low powered subspace communication. Probability suggested an extraordinarily small chance the enemy would have detected it from one simple communique. And Command Unit 9736 was not going to increase the risk of discovery. It sent back a single pulse, an order for the unit to shut down. No further information was necessary. The Command Unit knew all it needed to know. The enemy had paused in its flight, driven by the need to replenish its fuel stores. They were vulnerable, unable to flee until they extracted the needed fuel from the gas giant’s atmosphere. And Command Unit Gamma 9736 knew where they were. Even now, orders were being dispatched, fleets being gathered to destroy the enemy.
The Command Unit had considered its strategy carefully. Massing its fleets before attacking was the most tactically sound approach, save for one fact. Allowing more time to pass before engaging the enemy increased the chance that they would complete their refueling operation and once again escape. No, the attacks could not wait—they had to begin as soon as possible. The enemy had to be pinned in place, as many of his vessels damaged and slowed as possible.
The Command Unit ordered each force to engage as soon as it reached the system. The fleets would attack the enemy, keep them constantly fighting, slow their refueling efforts. The cost would be high in lost ships, but that was of no matter. The Regent’s orders were clear. Destroy the enemy. At all costs.
Command Unit Gamma 9736 had issued its orders. Its own determinations were of little account. The primary directive was obedience to the Regent, and that above all. Its fleets would move. They would attack, unmindful of losses. They would pin the enemy down in the system…or follow them if they fled.
AS Jaguar
System X18, Orbiting Planet X-18 V
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,912 crew
“That looks great, Commander. You have made enormous progress in a short time. Your engineers are to be commended.” John Duke stood on Jaguar’s tiny bridge. The fast attack ship was a cramped affair all around, and her tiny control center was no exception.
“Thank you, Admiral. It’s delicate work, but we all understand the importance of getting the refinery up and running as quickly as possible.” Jerrold Davies’ voice sounded tinny over the com, but the engineer was remarkably composed for someone in a pressure suit hovering deep in the atmosphere of a gas giant almost as large as Jupiter. “Normally, we’d take something like this a little slower, but there’s nothing normal about things now.
Duke didn’t understand the intricacies of building a tritium and helium-3 collection refinery in the atmosphere of a massive planet, but he was pretty sure trying to do it too quickly was damned dangerous. Indeed, they had already had two fatalities on the project. But that paled next to the prospective death toll if a First Imperium force caught the fleet so low on fuel.
“I’m sure we all appreciate your efforts, Commander. Right now there is no one in the fleet who holds our fate more in hand than your engineers.” Duke was trying t
o give Davies a little shot in the arm. The engineer hadn’t complained, but his people had been working twelve hours in pressure suits for every six hours off. That was a grinding workload in controlled conditions, but climbing around on an open superstructure in the upper atmosphere of a gas giant it was downright reckless. But necessary, he thought. And every word he had said was true. Davies and his people had to succeed. The fleet didn’t have a chance if they didn’t succeed.
“Admiral Compton will want an estimate on when the facility will be operational.” Duke hated pressuring Davies. He knew the engineer’s progress to date had been nothing short of exceptional, especially since he was working with far less than optimal equipment and supplies. But the rest of the fleet was at a virtual standstill without the tritium Davies’ people were here to refine. And staring at the warp gate scanners and hoping no enemy ships came pouring through was hardly a strategy Compton could be expected to embrace.
“We’ve got the platform up and operating, but we’ve just started on the refining and purification units. I’d say three days, possibly four. As long as we don’t have any more setbacks.” The job had been an enormous one. Davies’ people had been compelled to build an anti-grav platform, a huge structure held aloft by a bank of heavy thrusters. Without the platform, the immense gravity of the planet would have pulled the entire construction deeper into the atmosphere, until the rapidly increasing pressure crushed it all.
“Understood, Commander.” Duke could tell the engineer was tense. Davies was one of the best, and he knew what was riding on his team’s efforts. Indeed, his own fate, and that of his crews, was inextricably tied to the survival of the fleet. Yelling and constantly reminding him of the urgency was pointless. And he suspected Davies blamed himself for the two members of his crew who had slipped off the edge of the platform as well. Duke didn’t imagine falling until the pressure crushed you like a grape was a pleasant way to die.