Cold Conflict (Deception Fleet Book 2)

by Daniel Gibbs

  Sinclair tracked his departure, mouth part open, but didn’t ask him to stay put.

  “We’ll bring him home, Colonel,” Jackson said. “I’d appreciate if Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred can make the complete data available ASAP as promised.”

  “Of course, chaps.” Sinclair deactivated the holographic projector. “Along with tracking and traffic data from Caeli over the past month. You’ll find that of particular interest, Warrant Dwyer.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jackson had never seen his pilot sit so straight. “Begging your pardon again, sir, but I was hopin’ Warrant Sakuri would be available for debriefing.”

  “She will upon arrival. We’ve had her maintain discreet stationkeeping in case Lieutenant Garza needed extraction.”

  Gina’s expression softened. “So, the brother’s body—”

  “She recovered it, yes.”

  The sight of Harry broken in an infirmary’s special surgery ward flooded Jackson’s memories. He hadn’t been there, but Mom had sent the image along after Harry’s first notice about the accident. Jackson stood. “We’ll get it done, Colonel.”

  “I very much hope so, Captain,” Sinclair said. “Not just for the Garzas but all those impacted by the rapacious greed we’ve seen at play. Nosamo must be held to account, and by the grace of God and the directive of our betters, we shall be the ones to see it through.”

  3

  The White House, Lawrence City

  Canaan—Terran Coalition

  7 November 2464

  * * *

  Justin Spencer, President of the Terran Coalition, admired the tenacity of the Saurian people as a warrior race. He also found them rigorously blunt and honest, refreshing traits when it came to political discussion. The latter made negotiating with them a pleasure. The former made their presence in the Oval Office an oddity.

  The midday meeting involved Spencer’s trouble squad, as he referred to them in his private notes—Vice President, and one-time political adversary, Eduardo Fuentes; Secretary of Defense Celinda Snow; and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Andrew MacIntosh. Together, the foursome had streamlined the creation and deployment of Covert Action Unit 171 over the summer, which had resolved the so-called Cypriot Crisis satisfactorily. The Peace Union and other proponents of military dismantlement weren’t pleased CDF had played a vital role in securing the refugee flood, while more conservative factions of Spencer’s supporters grumbled that the president had been too soft on the displayed former Leaguers. In the end, a trafficking ring had been dismantled, the refugees given a chance to find freedom on a new world, and the League—who’s involvement had been denied across comm links and in curt discussions with diplomats—left to lick its wounds.

  Void Captain Vekir Nalax swept his claws along the holographic report from Aphendrika, furnished to the trouble squad by Colonel Robert Sinclair and Captain Jackson Adams. The security liaison didn’t fit well into the human-proportioned furniture of the Oval Office, but if his reptilian frame was uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. Spencer would be disappointed of any Saurian who did. Nalax represented the newly formed Joint Security and Intelligence Directorate of the Sagittarius Arm Treaty Organization. While details of the fledgling alliance’s military aspects were still being hammered out, JSID had stitched together a decent cohort of expert officers from multiple nations.

  “This reeks of the League,” Nalax snarled. “See? This is why they should have been burned in the cores of their stars and all their ability to build ships stricken.”

  “That’s a bit of a harsh assessment of a nation that includes countless innocents, some of whom you just saw being rescued from oppression.” Fuentes stood off to the side, a glass of water in hand. “You’re well aware of my position on the matter.”

  “Well aware, Mr. Vice President.” Nalax leaned on the dual words of the titles. “When your gutless, so-called ‘leadership’ gave the League a second chance to obliterate not only your world but mine. Were it not for the values I learned from the Terran CDF while in their officer exchange program, I would challenge your honor this very moment, as any true warrior of the Saurian Empire—”

  “That’s enough, Void Captain,” Spencer snapped. “Our people have been through all this—the recriminations, the what-ifs, the decisions we all made that we wished we hadn’t, no matter the outcome. Furthermore, from what I understand, that’s not the reason you’re here at all, so I’d appreciate if you’d shut off any planned attacks on my vice president.” He might be right, but I’ll be damned if someone comes into my house and takes on my friend.

  Nalax grumbled Saurian invectives through his gritted fangs. “I mean no disrespect, as you would well remember. My people value honesty. I was doing you the credit of being straightforward—offering the truth, as some of you humans say, ‘unvarnished,’ though I fail to see how preservation of dead tree planks has any bearing on frankness.”

  MacIntosh chuckled into a steaming cup of coffee. “By God, but I miss having the Saurians around for these kinds of chats. Nalax, I’m all too happy to restart the officer exchange program if you can convince your bosses.”

  “Perhaps another time, General. We, too, have observed that your species could use further training in the art of war from the best the galaxy has to offer.”

  It was Fuentes’s turn to chuckle. Spencer shared a look with Snow, who diligently examined her notes and turned red with restraint.

  “Void Captain Nalax, the matter at hand…” Spencer said.

  “Of course.” Nalax waved a clawed hand. “When we heard of the Aphendrika incident on the news networks, Saurian command, as I said, detected the League’s stench. Your sharing of classified data regarding the crisis confirms our suspicions. This is why I have come—to bolster your experiences with those of our own.”

  “Regarding the League?”

  “Yes, Mister President. Specifically, regarding two attempts in four months to destabilize elements of our government.” Nalax ticked them off on razor-sharp claws in imitation of the human gesture. “First, two of our warships were tricked into destroying an independent merchant station on one of our far borders, which we had been convinced suffered a takeover by hostile, piratical forces. This was a lie. One hundred eighty souls perished, two-thirds of which were Saurian. The second incident took place last month, just three jumps from our capital. Criminal elements were caught selling a drug, tailored to Saurian biology, that took hold of a substantial portion of trainees at one of our primary academies. We are still analyzing the drug, but the level of sophistication involved in its manufacture suggests similarities to the Terran dealings with Orbita.”

  “The League’s silent, homegrown scourge,” Snow murmured. “I wonder, Void Captain, if you could provide us with actionable intelligence.”

  “I have been authorized to do so.” Nalax tapped commands into his tablet. Snow’s device beeped in response. “If there are further details not contained in the report that you need, I can contact our field commanders to obtain what is missing.”

  “We all appreciate the candor and transparency,” Spencer said. “I trust you were able to at least tangentially connect these incidents to the League.”

  Nalax scowled. “Not as well as we would prefer. The League skulks like vermin in the refuse. They’re fit only for burning out or stamping upon, preferably both. But the communications analysis does point in their direction. Make no mistake—as prey, the League is more elusive now that open war no longer exists. As predators, it lies in wait for the weak and the sick rather than striking with strength. This is why we came to you.”

  Spencer wondered if Nalax was attempting human humor again. “I don’t follow.”

  “The Terrans—all your species, if one can generalize—has a predilection for and genius at subterfuge. The League is employing indirect methods that the Saurian Empire, a nation of proud warriors, is regrettably both ill-equipped and unwilling to use.”

  “Translation—they’re not fond of spies,” MacIntos
h said. “And we’re better at intelligence gathering. As in, we lie better than Saurians do.”

  “Quite the compliment, I suppose.” Fuentes sounded serious, but humor was clearly etched on his face, in the tilt of his smile and how he seemed ready to wink.

  “My nation is vexed by the enemy,” Nalax said. “We do not have the ships or the manpower to invade the League. No one does. Even cross-border raids are out of the question, due to the range involved. We have no interest in losing what few warships we possess on attacks that do nothing to shift the balance of power. With planets voting to leave the League and join your coalition, the frontiers are changing, and worse, supply lines are long to the Orion arm. More avenues have opened for criminal activity. This is the purpose behind Saurian involvement in SATO—to consolidate our forces against the threats still remaining since the end of the war.”

  “But you’re finding, like us, that some threats can’t be handled by launching missiles or firing cannons,” Spencer said.

  “Yes.” Nalax hissed his agreement. “We must do more than mutually protect each other and our people through the strength of our warriors. Cunning must play a role where force cannot.”

  “I understand.” Spencer nodded slowly. “Did you have something specific in mind?”

  “We have a common enemy, besides the League,” MacIntosh said. “Nosamo Tech.”

  Spencer made a face. He felt like he’d taken a bite of overcooked steak and there was no way to gracefully spit it out without appearing uncouth. “The megacorp out in Alvarsson Wedge.”

  “We suspect them of fostering piracy in our fringe systems,” Nalax growled. “Raiders are numerous and not easily caught by our border craft. The fleet is stretched too thin. A recent capture turned up an intriguing cargo—atmospheric processors registered to Nosamo and bound for our most damaged colonies.”

  “I thought you’d limited trading with megacorps.”

  “Those strictures are not always followed, not when Saurian lives are at stake because of faulty machinery. Desperate beings will resort to desperate deals—in this case, violating such agreements and paying exorbitant fees to get their hands on the machinery they require.”

  “These raiders,” Snow interjected, “you say you caught one? Why were they transporting cargo instead of raiding?”

  “They achieved both, as best we can tell, by crippling or outright destroying transports carrying supplies on behalf of the Saurian Empire. Those ships that escape our claws evade pursuit in the uncharted systems along the frontier.” Nalax leaned forward in his chair. “As we were investigating these crimes, word filtered to us of your losing a man at Bellwether.”

  “I can confirm the death of a CDF Intelligence officer,” Spencer said. “But I can’t speak to the circumstances yet. What I’m hearing from you, though, is a desire to kill two birds with one stone.”

  Nalax seemed puzzled until his toothy sneer widened into the Saurian version of a grin. “One of your species’s better metaphors. That is what we desire, Mr. President, and we are happy to offer our limited resources aboard Bellwether.”

  “You have spies there?” Fuentes asked. “I thought you abhorred the practice.”

  “Aboard trading vessels that ply the region, yes, but members of the Clawless have banished themselves and are willing to trade information in return for quiet contact with their families.”

  “I didn’t realize.” Snow glanced at the rest of the trouble team, including Spencer. “The Clawless is the term the Saurian Empire applies to citizens who refused to take up arms in the war.”

  “Cowards,” Nalax sneered. “And heathens. But they have eyes, and they can smell, so we do not discount all they say. What tales they share tell of a corrupt company with the power of a nation, bent on twisting regional politics to suit its whims.”

  “A fact of which we’re well aware, Colonel.” Spencer frowned. “These Clawless—for our collaboration to be successful, we would need a means to contact them.”

  “Do you have people willing to do so?”

  Spencer glanced at MacIntosh and nodded.

  “Right.” MacIntosh’s Scots accent thickened. “We’ve dispatched a team to investigate our man’s death, with the secondary mission of shining a light into Nosamo’s practices, as they directly affect the sovereign power of the Terran Coalition.”

  Nalax’s scales twitched. He seemed to be reading the room, as it were—perhaps trying to determine the truthfulness of the words just spoken. They were honest enough, if missing a few details, Spencer thought. Cooperation did not include opening up Intelligence’s curtains for the galaxy to see, as far as he was concerned.

  “I will converse with my superiors to see what data they are willing to provide,” Nalax finally said. “Know that there is still division among us, given Terran conduct at the war’s end—by which you could have doomed this entire region of the galaxy.”

  “I’ll be happy to remind them of the blood humans spilled and the personal risks we in this room took,” Spencer said. “I’ll also be glad to show them the battle reports that clearly summarize how Terran, Saurian, and neutral fleets put aside their differences to achieve a goal that had eluded our civilizations for three decades—the defeat and defanging of the League of Sol. Whatever else you report to your superiors, tell them we won’t shy away from another fight, and right now, we’re doing our best to continue the very same fight in the shadows to make sure our innocents won’t face a repeat cataclysm.”

  “A wise consideration.” Nalax rose from his seat.

  Spencer and the others did the same.

  “Let us show those who doubt our combined strength what our fledgling SATO alliance can achieve.”

  Spencer hoped Nalax was right. From what he’d seen of the Aphendrika incident, the League was sure to try a destabilizing action again, and the next time, all involved would have to take greater care to make certain they did not tip the Coalition off its unsteady footing. It’s probably time to schedule a summit with Chief Minister Obe. Perhaps my relationship with him can be repaired.

  Ramsey Moss waited outside the Smoky Asteroid Taproom in Sector C Eight. It had a ridiculous name—since when did asteroids emit smoke like the neon image above the door of one spraying its glowing green vapor?—but it was crowded, poorly lit, and noisy, the perfect place to have a huddled conversation he didn’t want anyone else to eavesdrop on.

  His benefactor’s contact was there early. Ramsey scowled. It didn’t matter what time they set or whether Ramsey showed up a few minutes ahead of schedule. The guy always beat him. Ramsey slid into the booth. The opaque plastic panels blunted the worst of the grating music, converting it into a rolling thunder.

  “Hey, Fernand.”

  Fernand was an average-looking guy, dressed in black jacket, brown shirt, and gray trousers. His attire suggested a middle-class office worker—not a dockhand or a grifter or even an independent merchant. He wasn’t clean cut enough to be Nosamo but could pass for someone employed by one of the tech conglomerate’s many subsidiaries. Other than a cybernetic eye and a few scars, the young guy was unremarkable.

  “Ramsey.” Fernand sipped his drink.

  Water. Great stars. Who drinks water in a place like this?

  “My boss isn’t happy with the way things turned out—accepting but not happy.”

  Ramsey rolled his eyes. “I don’t really care, okay? I got people killed, and that means paperwork, the kind that brings investigations. If this were a regular police force, I’d be parked behind a desk with holos to review. You guys could have tipped me off sooner that Nels was up to something.”

  Fernand sipped his water again. “Are you finished?”

  “I could rant for a bit more, but I got work to do. So, say whatever you came to say.”

  “Okay.” Fernand reached for his pocket.

  Ramsey’s hand dropped toward the holster on his belt. “Now, wait just a damned second.”

  “Relax. It’s a present.”

  A
tiny red datachip clattered onto the center of the table. Ramsey glanced at it without moving his hand in case it was a distraction meant to give Fernand the chance to shoot him. It was how Ramsey would have planned an ambush. “Early Christmas?”

  “Get this into your data hub back at your precinct. I’ll send you a signal with installation instructions. Use whatever excuse you need to get it plugged in. When the time comes for the heist, the programming embedded in this chip will shield our activities.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I won’t go into great detail on the technical aspects, but let’s just say it will make whatever protocol overriding you do when we steal Nosamo’s specs seem like external work from an unknown source. It’s adept at covering tracks and redirecting attention.”

  Ramsey took the chip and slid it into a jacket pocket, all without taking his eyes off Fernand. “Thanks. What do I owe?”

  “My boss says he’ll deduct the cost from your share of the profits we’ll realize on the successful completion of the job.”

  “Great. Another deferred payment.”

  Fernand stared at him. Ramsey wasn’t sure what was worse—Fernand’s lack of ability to have a normal conversation or his maddening unflappability. The guy could be programmed as thoroughly as the datachip, for all Ramsey knew.

  “If you’re done whining, I have another question from the boss,” Fernand said.

  Ramsey gestured for him to continue.

  “What progress have you made on replacements?”

  “For my crew? Shit. They’ve barely been cold seventy-two hours, and you want me to fill boots? It’s your turn to relax. I’ve got feelers out—the usual places.” Ramsey indicated the busy bar with his thumb. “Running security in a place like this isn’t for cops. You need people who are willing to cut corners and know how to keep the right individuals down. It keeps the population on their toes and doesn’t hurt bank accounts either.”

  “What kind of feelers?”