Annoyingly, however, reports of a serious nature were now surfacing, threatening to undermine his control over the Sectors. Somehow, critical systems in his rebellion had been infiltrated by agents working for Alexander, beginning a programme of disseminating the truth about what had actually happened. Entertainment and information programmes were being randomly replaced with claims Alexander and Adam were still alive, declaring Frederick as a usurper. No sooner had the offending shows been taken off-air, then they would reappear somewhere else. Despite the best efforts of his counterintelligence agencies, no means of stopping them had been found, short of totally shutting down the networks. Frustratingly, Frederick’s advisors insisted they had complete control of who or what came into each system and continued to assure him these incidents could only be the work of those who had been missed in the initial purge of loyalists. However, the information being provided by these loyalist broadcasts was uncannily up to date, on occasion providing information on events around the Empire that hadn’t even reached Frederick or his co-conspirators.
As a result, increasingly large numbers of the population in these systems were now asking questions and demanding answers. Where people became too vocal, Frederick’s agents had turned to the tried and tested methods of population control, using intimidation and violence to retain power. The fear of receiving a midnight knock on the door and seeing your family taken away, never to be heard of again, was enough to ensure that most would comply. For a population unused to hardships of any sort and usually happy for its Government to deal with most aspects of their lives, fighting back against the changes was an alien concept for the majority, which remained unused to critical thinking and happy to believe what they were being told by authority figures.
Duke Frederick rested his elbows on the armrests of his heavily padded chair, fingers steepled in front of his face, thinking hard about what to do next in the battle against alexander’s forces. Brendan Brook was urging a strike back against Duke Gallagher’s Sector, pointing out that it would soon be stripped of its main battle fleet when it joined with Alexanders, leaving Wayland and the other major systems lightly defended and reliant on the Jump Stations to prevent access in-system.
Undecided, Frederick reached for a glass of wine with his right hand, taking a large mouthful and savouring the silky smoothness roll around his palette. Just then, an urgent message came through from his Palace’s AI, informing him of the message currently being transmitted to all Jump Stations, confirming Empress Christine’s death at the hands of an assassin while on a diplomatic mission to Felidae space with Duke Gallagher.
Frederick hastily swallowed the wine and replaced the glass on the table, sitting up straight and looking around the table to see the reactions on everyone’s faces as they too received the fantastic news. Within seconds, all eyes had turned to look at him, looking for a sign of how he was going to react. Although inwardly Frederick was ecstatic, his expression gave nothing away. Instead, he returned their questioning looks with one of feigned surprise at their reaction.
“My friends,” he began, “why do you all look so surprised? Didn’t I tell you there were long-term plans in place? The assassin was personally chosen by me and tasked with removing members of the Imperial family. He narrowly failed at the Heaven system, with Alexander and Adam escaping by purest chance. Duke Gallagher was his fall-back target, but I think he has done well in removing the Empress instead. Alexander will now be distracted and fatally weakened, giving us an opportunity to press forward, take at least another Sector and move our plans forward by several months.”
He stood and picked up the glass again.
“A toast, if you all would rise.” Frederick waited until everyone had stood and raised a glass. “To our assassin, Lt Collinson, late of the Imperial Intelligence Service and Imperial Navy.”
“Lt Collinson,” returned the combined voices, followed by a chinking of glasses and then an increase in the noise level as everyone began discussing with each other what this new development would mean to their plans.
Brendan Brook tried to message Frederick on a private channel, but he ignored it. Instead, he looked across the room and caught Brook’s eye, shaking his head slightly. Frederick returned his thoughts to Christine’s death and in his mind began working through the implications. In some respects, it would have been better if the assassin had killed Gallagher instead of the Empress, for the Duke’s eldest son, Thomas, while like his father in many ways, was untested in the running of a sector and the loss of such a major figure as Gallagher in his Navy would have severely affected Alexander’s plans. Another point to consider was that the message had confirmed that she’d been killed in Felidae space while conducting treaty negotiations. Nothing had been heard from Freya or the aliens concerning the incident, and he wondered what their reaction would be at a death in their sovereign space. Would they see it as a provocative act or a sign of weakness? Either way, he judged it would not bode well for the Empire, and as a result, the loyalist Sectors bordering Felidae space would now have to almost certainly have to be reinforced, withdrawing more ships from Alexander’s front line forces.
Unusually, and only for the briefest of moments, Frederick wondered as to his assassins fate.
“Has he been executed already or would the Felidae demand he be tried by them for the crime?” he pondered, not that it mattered in the slightest, for low-level pawns such as Collinson were expendable. There were others already in place, carefully selected and groomed for their missions, just waiting for the right moment to strike and wreak maximum damage. Fredrick smiled, then opened his implant again to the general hubbub going on around him, checking with his AI for a precis of what he had missed, the news of Christine’s death having washed away the earlier concerns, leaving him quietly satisfied.
At the same time, several thousand light-years away, Duke Gallagher was also thinking about his erstwhile aide, Lt Collinson, but his mood was one of carefully controlled anger currently being used to focus on the instructions which had arrived from Alexander. Due to his time away in Felidae space, Patrick’s body clock was not in sync with the rest of his fleet, and he was struggling to adapt to the new rhythm. Fighting off fatigue from too little sleep, he looked again at the task given to him by his Emperor.
In a matter of hours, his Sector's Grand Fleet would be fully assembled at Wayland’s only Jump Point and ready to fight. Their target had not come as a surprise, for Gallagher had expected his friend and Emperor to move again against one or more of the nobles siding with Frederick, especially as he had proved the new planet-wrecking weapon’s effectiveness. Duke McEvitt had been the first noble to fall before the Emperor, and Gallagher had provided Alexander with suggestions on whom to attack next, but these had apparently not fitted into the larger plan. Instead, Alexander wanted Duke Vincent, of Sector 10, to be the target.
Despite considerable misgivings, Patrick wasn’t going to argue, but that didn’t mean he would accept them without making his reservations known. As usual, Alexander had been gracious and listened, but in this case, had firmly rejected the advice in favour of his own plan.
Leaning back in his padded chair, Patrick reflected for a moment on all those traitorous nobles who had thought themselves safe behind supposedly impenetrable shields and wondered how they would react when word reached them of Duke McEvitt’s fate and that of his planet. He could imagine the fear rippling through their ranks. By using the weapon, Alexander had cast a stone into the rebel’s pond which would ripple outwards until all the planets knew what lay in store for them if they resisted.
Setting the attack plans aside for a moment, Gallagher looked again at the reports he’d received on what had happened to Duke McEvitt and his family. Various hologrammatic displays surrounded him, taking up a full 180 degrees of his vision. He called up a fresh holographic image of what was left of McEvitt’s capital, which appeared in front of him just above his table. From what he could see, little remained of the Duke’s capital and pa
lace other than smoking rubble and twisted metal. Expanding the viewpoint, he noted how damage free the surrounding countryside appeared to be, despite the fearsome energies so recently expended. Travel fifty miles away from the city and apart from ruined buildings, everything on the planet seemed serene, although he knew that seismic aftershocks remained a problem as tectonic plates and fault lines settled into their new positions. Patrick reflected a moment on McEvitt’s fate, deciding how the man’s hubris had condemned both himself and his entire family. Their crushed and mutilated bodies had finally been found in the rubble above ground. Had they sought shelter underground some of them might have survived, but so sure had McEvitt been that his new shields would prove effective that he’d not bothered to find them a more secure position.
“I’ll consider it evolution in action,” he thought to himself, a little surprised at his callousness, after all, he’d known the Duke and his wife personally but dismissed his hardness as a reaction to recent events. Patrick was still finding it hard to come to terms with Christine’s untimely death and hadn’t been sleeping very well since the incident. Reluctant to ask his personal physician for something to help him settle, he’d been avoiding going to bed, dreading the long nights with only fitful, troubled sleep to look forward to.
“Carmen, please arrange for my son and the other senior officers to attend a conference call and schedule it for me in an hours time,” he instructed, wanting to inform his Captains of the target personally, rather than simply forward Alexander’s instructions.
“I will begin immediately, Patrick,” came the reply. A holographic representation of Carmen appeared in front of him, his aide fading the intensity of the others. “I’ve also prepared cost reports for your attention and sign off. At current expenditure levels, there will need to be a general rise in taxation levels throughout the Sector in two months. I’ve prepared a full breakdown of suggested areas and the impact on growth and morale, and this can be found in appendices one and two respectively.”
Carmen’s voice in his mind paused, and Patrick guessed his aide was using the rooms sensors to evaluate his current health and wellbeing. Before she could say anything, Patrick smiled at the projection in front of him.
“I know, Carmen, I need to get some rest otherwise I’ll not be of much use to anyone…no need to remind me.” Patrick looked around the room, then dismissed the various displays surrounding him that were providing various reports and updates. “Please put the meeting with everyone back another two hours. I’ll try and get some rest beforehand.”
The image of Carmen nodded then faded away, but not before muting the ambient lighting in the room to help him relax. Patrick got up and slowly walked over to the door which led to a small bedroom he used when working late so not to wake his partner. Sinking gratefully down onto the oversized bed, he finally gave up trying to sleep naturally and instructed his implant to begin aiding his mind to produce more Theta and Delta brainwaves. He didn’t like resorting to artificial methods, but of all the options available this seemed the least intrusive.
He could feel the effects after a few minutes and began to aid the process by meditating. Despite this and the best efforts of his implant, Patrick’s mind was still a whirl of thought, regret and annoyance. To counteract this, he focused on one thought, going over his interrogation of Collinson immediately after Christine’s assassination, using the perfect recall afforded by his implant to relive what he’d ended up doing with Collinson…
Gallagher sat opposite Collinson, glad for the thermal properties of his clothes, as the room was being kept at a temperature several degrees below what would be considered comfortable, especially for the prisoner in front of him, now dressed only in a thin jumpsuit devoid of pockets or ornamentation of any kind. The prisoner was restrained by smart-metal cuffs that were joined to the armrests, but still giving him some flexibility of movement.
Collinson had been woken from his induced sleep, his mind still somewhat disjointed from the thorough interrogation it had received by the ship’s medical AI. Wherever possible, his memories had been recorded going right back to his childhood, and the AI had been sifting through them, looking for patterns and clues as to where he had fitted in the rebellion and what his other targets had been. It came as no shock to Gallagher to learn that he had been one of Collinson’s prime targets, but it pained him that Christine was the one who died instead. He would gladly have given up his own life if it had meant she could have been spared. Apparently, Collinson’s had been involved with the recent attempt on Wayland, hence his absence from the grounds that day.
He watched carefully as Collinson struggled back to full consciousness through the thick mind-fog that an in-depth interrogation left behind. Despite this, Collinson retained the presence of mind to quickly assess his situation, sitting up in the chair with as much defiance as he could muster and looked directly at Gallagher. It took him a few seconds to remember how to use his mouth and tongue properly, and Gallagher watched patiently as he struggled to get the first words out.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Patrick?” Collinson asked, trying to be sarcastic, his defiance spoiled by the slight slurring of his words.
Gallagher’s thin smile didn’t reach his eyes, which remained cold and hard. He nodded.
“You know we did. I even understand your motives. Orphaned as a baby, brought up in a succession of loveless and sometimes abusive homes. No love for the Empire or its bureaucracy. Offered a chance to get your revenge on a system that had let you down. Oh yes, I understand.” Gallagher’s eyes narrowed slightly before he continued talking.
“Problem with that, is most people get on with their lives and contribute to society. But not you. No, instead you wallowed in bitterness and self-pity, then sought petty revenge instead of helping others avoid what you had to suffer.” Gallagher shook his head.
Collinson smiled, his natural self-confidence returning despite his predicament, but the cold began making him shiver, despite his best efforts to ignore it.
“So why am I still alive? Are you saving me for the Emperor or are you going to do it yourself?”
Patrick shook his head. “No, Stephen, I’ll not dirty my hands on someone like you, neither will I let my friend soil himself by being in your presence. I have a different fate in store for you.”
Listening to the quiet, yet menacing voice of his erstwhile mentor, Collinson shuddered, taking little comfort that it would have been hidden by his reaction to the cold. “At least I’ll live a little longer, whatever the old bastard has planned,” he thought to himself, defiantly, a part of him hoping the rebellion would be won before Gallagher made good on the threat.
“So why are you here then, Patrick? To gloat?”
Gallagher shook his head. “No, Stephen, simply to say goodbye. I wanted mine to be the last human face you will ever see, ” and with that, stood up and left the room.
Puzzled at this turn of events, Collinson looked around and was about to shout something at Gallagher’s retreating back as the door was closing behind him, but was distracted as the chair injected a fast active sedative and he gently slumped down against the seat restraints, semi-conscious. Before the door closed completely, half a dozen medical orderlies came in and placed his inert body onto a transport gurney, then left the room with it, going in the opposite direction to the one Gallagher took. As Gallagher walked away without looking back, he spoke loudly over his shoulder, instructing the orderlies to be gentle. Anyone watching the old Duke’s face would have seen a broad smile appear as Gallagher heard Collinson’s body being taken away to the fate he had planned for him.
To Collinson, only a few moments had passed before he awoke with a start, quickly sitting upright and realising he was no longer restrained, his first reaction being confusion at his unfamiliar surroundings but grateful for the warmth and pleased to be out of the cold interrogation room. He leapt to his feet, realising he appeared to be in the open under a hot but unfamiliar and dim sun. Old ha
bits made him check his implant for any information on his surroundings, but it remained inert and deactivated.
Collinson looked around, surprised his restraints had all been removed. He quickly began taking in as much as he could of his surroundings. Overhead, the sun was high and hot in the cloudless sky, the air holding only a faint trace of moisture. Not far from his position sat a jumble of naked rocks, their bases only thinly covered by straw coloured vegetation. No structures or living things could be seen and all Collinson could hear was the faint rustling of the light breeze through the alien-looking bushes and grass.
With nothing else to see, he looked at what he was wearing. Gone were the thin clothes, replaced with a more substantial outfit. His feet were clad in standard footwear that afforded adequate protection from the sharp-bladed grasses and angular stones underfoot. Despite the warmth of the sun and the light breeze, Collinson felt a shiver run down his spine. He recognised it for what it was; a warning from his subconscious that he was not alone and was being watched.
He took a few steps towards the outcrop of rocks some thirty or so yards ahead, his eyes scanning the ground immediately in front of him for something to use as a weapon. Slowing as he approached the rocks, Collinson was unsure whether to climb to the top for a better look or to stay where he was and not risk exposing himself. Undecided, he heard a faint noise behind him and spun around, hands raised in a combat stance to defend himself. Unable to see anything and about to berate himself for being overly jumpy, he noticed a small bundle of equipment laid out in a neat pile, placed exactly where he’d been moments before. Knowing he could not have missed them, he realised someone or something had put them there after he had passed. Intrigued, Collinson walked over and crouched down to examine the items.
Imperium: Coda: Book Three in the Imperium Trilogy Page 11