by Jay Allan
Everyone present gestured affirmatively. Then, a moment later, Phazarax spoke. “You indeed have my consent, Tesserax. Proceed as you see fit, with the full blessing of this Council.”
The Grand Admiral rose, his immense form towering over the table. “Once again, my thanks to all of you. The enemy has called forth its reserves. All of its forces, save only for the small armada remaining at the jump point, are now committed and deep within the system. I have given the orders for the final phase. If fortune is with us, the bulk of the Hegemony fleet will be destroyed in this system in the next hours.”
“We stand with you, Grand Admiral. Go with the support of all on this Council. The lower creatures in this system are expendable…and the destruction of enemy antimatter production is a first order priority.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Stallia Vente Hospital
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV
Union Year 225 (321 AC)
“First Citizen…can you hear me?”
The words were soft, distant. Villieneuve was floating, drifting along a cool breeze, lost, uncertain of where he was. He reached out, tried to follow the voice, to find his way back to…
To what? He didn’t know. Or did he?
There was something else, something new. Anger? Was it new? Or was it old, just returning?
His view changed, morphing from a soft gauzy haze to a harsh, bright light. And beyond, faces, blurry at first, but slowly coming into focus.
“Where?” He croaked out the one-word question, his throat aching as he did.
“You’re in the hospital, First Citizen.”
“How…why?”
“There was an explosion…a nuclear accident. The Hall of the People is gone, First Citizen, and most of the surrounding buildings. You were leaving early…you were outside, close, but partially protected from the primary blast zone. I found you there, got you away.”
“Who…are…you?” Then, before the man responded, “Steves?”
“Yes, First Citizen. It’s Gravis Steves. I was able to contact your elite guards. There are fifty of them here. They are patrolling all around the hospital. You’re safe.”
“For…now…maybe…” Clarity was returning, and with it an irresistible urge, a yawning need to act, to take steps to preserve his power.”
“Ciara?”
“As far as I’ve heard, she is still missing. She must be dead, sir.”
“Can’t assume that…who…is…running…government?”
“As far as anyone knows, you are, First Citizen. I put out word that you were in your bunker managing a response to this atrocity. So far it seems to be working.”
“No…won’t stop anyone…plots already…in works…” Villieneuve turned his head to the side…and the room flipped upside down. He could feel the vomit rising, and he tried to turn over before it came up, with limited success. He retched hard, and he felt the warm froth sliding down his neck and onto his shoulders.
“Please, First Citizen, you have to remain still. You’ve had a preliminary radiation cleanse, but I’m afraid you’re still suffering from the effects of the contamination.”
“Go…get out of here.” The command was directed at the nurse trying to clean up the mess he’d made. Villieneuve was angry, not really at the nurse, or at Steves, whom he realized had probably saved his life, but at the situation, and at his own helplessness.
And at the realization that his political rivals were almost certainly plotting, if not already deep into efforts to unseat him, to seize power for themselves. He didn’t have time to lay around in some hospital, but if he couldn’t even turn his head without vomiting, he was stuck.
“No time…to stay…here…”
“First Citizen, you have six broken ribs, a partially repaired punctured lung, multiple internal injuries, second level radiation sickness. You have to stay here. Tell me what you need, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Steves…thank…you. Help me…now…and you will…be…rewarded.” Villieneuve detested being helpless, but he was a cold realist, and like it or not, he was completely dependent on Steves and on his guards. He’d managed to get a glimpse of one of the sentries outside his door. Steves had gotten his redshirts. The elite team was loyal, he was sure of that, though he realized an enemy only had to turn one of them to pull off a quick assassination. He wasn’t exactly a hard target lying in bed.
“I did everything I could think of, but…”
“You did…well. Now, I…need my people. We need to…reassert…control. Lysien, Pepian, Velechaun…to start. Find them…and bring them…here…”
Steves was silent for a few seconds. “They’re dead, First Citizen…all except for Velechaun. I couldn’t find him. He’s probably dead, too, but I haven’t been able to confirm.”
Villieneuve nodded, stopping the move halfway when his stomach rebelled again. He was alive, for the moment, but unless he could get back in control, he wasn’t likely to stay that way. He had to find out which of his reliable people were still alive.
Assuming he could consider anyone reliable…
* * *
“Andre, thank you so much for coming. What happened was a nightmare, a terrible atrocity on our city.” Ciara was sitting on a large couch, trying to look less weak and injured than she was. The townhouse belonged to Pierre Chantrel, and old ally…and a former lover. She’d gambled wildly, bet her life that Chantrel would help her, that he, too, would place a wager with monumental stakes. If she prevailed, and seized power, Chantrel would become her top industrial advisor…and no doubt shortly after that, the wealthiest man in the Union.
Contacting Andre Velechaun had been her second audacious bet, a far riskier one. Velechaun was one of Villieneuve’s key people, a longtime ally of the First Citizen. But Ciara was well-versed in driving wedges between friends and comrades, and her overture to Velechaun had been accompanied by the daring claim that Villieneuve was in hiding somewhere, and that none other than the First Citizen himself had orchestrated the bombing in a fit of paranoia after the coup attempt, an effort to eliminate some of those close to him who might be tempted to emulate her actions. It was wild, hard to believe…but then Velechaun knew Villieneuve very well, and the whole fiction was something the First Citizen’s ruthless mind just might conceive.
Anyway, Velechaun had come, and in a few minutes, she’d know if he was serious about listening to her proposal…or if he’d simply taken the chance to get close so he could kill her. The reports on the street proclaimed the First Citizen was fine and in total control of the government, but Velechaun’s arrival told Ciara that wasn’t true. Or, certainly, that it wasn’t the whole story. Then, her guest hit her with a bombshell.
“Gaston Villieneuve was caught in the explosion…but he is alive.” Velechaun’s tone was neutral. She was usually good at reading people, but this time she had nothing. She figured it was about fifty-fifty whether he was there to discuss backing her efforts to seize power…or to put her down and collect his reward from Villieneuve. The odds had been better a few seconds before, when she hadn’t known for sure the First Citizen had survived. She’d heard the media reports, of course, about Villieneuve being unharmed, but she hadn’t believed them for an instant. If he’d been ‘unharmed’ he’d have been all over the broadcast nets.
He must be injured at least…
“That is unfortunate.” She glanced up at Velechaun, and in that moment, she let her guard down and prepared to accept her fate, whatever it was. “So, did you come to talk? Or are there a hundred Foudre Rouge surrounding the house?”
“I imagine, from your perspective, that may seem the likelier option, and very probably, it would have been, save for one fact. I have known Gaston Villieneuve for a long time, and I have seen him during crises. I was by his side after the collapse of the Presidium, when he seized sole power. I watched him execute thousands as he solidified his base, including many loyal Sector Nine operatives, sacrificed because
it was politically expedient for him to represent himself as new and separate from the old regime. That was all a fraud, of course, but I haven’t forgotten. I think he was truly friends with Ricard Lille, but I don’t believe the man has ever had a relationship with anyone else that wasn’t based on expediency, or anyone he wouldn’t expend if it served his purposes. Now, with your—and I assume you were behind the explosion—move against him, he is likely to continue to react very violently. Especially, as I believe he is wounded, and somewhere in hiding. It is a dangerous time to be his ally or confidante, and that is why I am here, Sandrine. I will not waste time telling you I believe in what you’re doing, or that I feel you will be a better First Citizen than Villieneuve. But I believe I can make a deal with you, and that you will be less likely to suddenly order my execution if we are successful. I considered making my own play for power, but I lack the resources and preparation that you clearly have…even after the failure of your coup and the damage caused to your network.” A pause. “I will settle for the number two position. If I support you, and we succeed, you will name me Chancellor. Those are my terms.”
Ciara was surprised—a little that she wasn’t being gunned down by Foudre Rouge or Sector Nine thugs, but mostly at what Velechaun had said. She’d been prepared to do her best to persuade him to support her openly, or at least, covertly. She hadn’t expected one so close to Villieneuve to be ready to throw in with her completely.
Or to have his price so carefully determined.
She was edgy about offering him the number two spot in her government, assuming she survived long enough to establish one. She knew Velechaun well enough, and his decision to hold back from a play on the top spot was in no way a guarantee against future treachery. All things considered, she’d have preferred someone less ambitious—and less capable—in the Chancellor’s post.
But she needed allies, and Velechaun was a powerful one, all the more useful because Villieneuve probably expected his support.
“Very well, Andre. Support me fully, with all your resources and capabilities, and I will appoint you Chancellor.”
Her new ally nodded. “Then it is done…First Citizen. My first advice, paramount above all things right now is simple in theory, though likely difficult in fact. Before we make any kind of overt move on the First Citizen’s chair, we have to kill Gaston Villieneuve.”
* * *
“She has to be dead, Ambassador. There can’t be much doubt she was behind the explosion. It was a…higher magnitude…option than we’d anticipated, but for all the collateral damage, perhaps one with a higher likelihood of success. The real question is, did Gaston Villieneuve really escape as the media reports claim, or did she actually manage to get him?” Kyle Corbin had been sitting with Kerevsky for hours, going through every report, every news broadcast, trying to get some idea what was going on.
What was actually going on.
They had no real idea of the situation, but the one thing they both knew for certain was they couldn’t trust anything the Union media said.
They’d sweated things out for the first couple days, the enraged mob outside worked up by early reports suggesting the Confederation had been responsible for the bombing, and looking as though they’d storm the embassy at any moment. Kerevsky hadn’t relished the thought of the fallout from Confederation Marines gunning down Union civilians…and even less, the idea of being literally torn to pieces by that same enraged mob.
“I’m not so sure, Kyle. She’s pretty…resourceful.” Kerevsky wondered if his analysis of Ciara was impartial, or if it was colored by his affection for her. He wanted to believe she was still alive, but he’d never allowed desires to distort his analysis before. There wasn’t any question, though. the more important mystery was Gaston Villieneuve’s fate. If the dictator had been killed, the Union would likely slip into chaos as multiple parties struggled to take his place. Whatever happened, and whoever prevailed, it was almost certain to be a positive for the Confederation. Villieneuve’s hatred for the Union’s longtime enemy bordered on pathological, and while Kerevsky didn’t doubt the Confederation could handle any Union aggression, with the discovery of the Hegemony, the situation had become far more complex. If the Confederation ever had to face both nations at the same time, not even considering what else might lurk out there, farther coreward, the results would be disastrous.
He didn’t fool himself that any change in the Union would usher in more freedom for its people, but almost anyone would be less of a danger to the Confederation than Villieneuve.
And, if Sandrine still is alive, and if she somehow manages to seize control after all…we might just be able to work something out. He didn’t have any doubt Ciara would sign a long-term treaty with the Confederation, in return for aid to prop up the Union’s ever-teetering economy and her new and fragile regime.
“We have to know, Kyle. Send out some agents. Tell them to be careful…but we need to know if Villieneuve is alive or dead.” He paused. “And we need to know about Sandrine Ciara as well.”
At least, I need to know.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System GH8-14F3
Year of the Firstborn 384 (322 AC)
The Battle of Pharsalon – “The Kill”
“All delivery vehicles fully armed and prepared to launch on your command, Grand Admiral.”
Tesserax didn’t move, didn’t look over at the Thrall at the tactical station. The ship’s crew, the technicians and specialists who operated the vast craft, were as nothing to him, expendable supplicants drawn from the vast hordes of worshippers. Simply serving the Highborn in such close proximity was an honor, one worth any danger, any death.
“You may launch on both targets.”
Tesserax wasn’t sure what effect the bombardments would have on the actions of the Hegemony fleet. He saw very little value in a world of some hundreds of millions of the lower creatures, though no doubt the enemy combatants, also of such lesser stature, might feel differently. Indeed, Tesserax was confident they would. Any distraction, any diversion of resources in an attempt to intercept the delivery vehicles, would only speed the destruction of the enemy fleet. Then, once their military assets were destroyed, the Hegemony would lay helpless before his forces. The reordering of the human society could begin in earnest, and those billions of inhabitants who survived would learn to take their places as supplicants and worshippers. Their obedience would be forged in the blood of those who resisted, their worship in the growing recognition that the Highborn were their superiors, as Gods destined to rule over them…and to shepherd them into the future.
S’Argevon shook, a slight vibration that Tesserax’s superior senses detected. He very much doubted any of the Thralls had felt the delivery vehicles launching. The missiles were massive, equipped with all manner of electronic countermeasures to thwart interception. They carried multiple antimatter warheads, over a thousand in each. Three, perhaps four, of the giant missiles could wipe a world completely clean of its population and artificial structures. And over two hundred of them were now heading toward the target planets.
So much for distraction as a tactic. Now, it was time to unleash the final blow, to trap the enemy fleet, to turn a victory into extermination.
“It is time.” His voice was deep, booming across the vast space of the ship’s control center. “Initiate phase four.”
“As you command.” A moment later: “Phase four initiated, Grand Admiral. All commands confirm.”
Tesserax stared straight ahead, his demeanor cold, unreadable, as it always was. But in his thoughts, deep within his exceedingly capable and complex Highborn mind, he prepared to savor his favorite part of such operations.
The kill.
* * *
“Commander Chronos, we’re detecting multiple launches from the enemy fleet. They appear to be physical constructs…the AI’s best projection is they are delivery vehicles for planetary bombardment warheads.”
Chronos had already written off the population of Pharsalon, though the immediacy of the danger to the people there still jabbed at him, wearing down his resolve. Could he really sit there and make no effort to save them, however unlikely success might be?
Then he glanced at the display, and he froze.
The giant missiles were not just heading for Pharsalon. They were also targeting planet seven.
“All ships in quadrant nine…commence interception operations at once. I want those missiles destroyed.” He knew he was drawing strength away from the main fight, reducing his fleet’s already slim chances of prevailing in the battle raging all around. And a few seconds later, he saw more waves of missiles, and he knew the chances of intercepting them all were slim.
But planet seven represented forty years of work, trillions upon trillions of Hegemony credits, and thousands of Arbeiter killed during construction operations on its inhospitable surface. It was almost irreplaceable, and critically important to the war effort. The loss of three hundred million civilians, after all those lost already, would hurt, but an inability to keep the fleet supplied with antimatter would dash any hopes of saving the seven hundred billion citizens of the Hegemony.
Chronos watched as the ships in the designated division executed his orders, veering off from their courses, at least as quickly as thrust and existing velocities allowed. Almost immediately, he saw a missile targeted and destroyed, and then another. But he knew the calculus of the situation. Those missiles were big, and the warheads they carried were almost certainly enormously powerful, probably antimatter armed. His people could destroy half of the vehicles, or three-quarters. Or even ninety-five percent. But enough would get through to devastate the two planets.