by Jay Allan
“There may be truth to what you say…but you can be trusted, Ricard, and that is true of very few people. You are one of the smartest men I have ever known. I’d love nothing more than to keep you in the shadows, ready to perform your special…skills…when needed. But there is no one else I can rely upon. Not now. Not at this critical stage. I can’t trust the PP to someone who might make a move against me. Not until I’ve secured a far firmer grip on things.”
Lille still wasn’t sure how his comrade had managed to achieve all he had…save for the fact that he’d surfed a wave of blood into the top position. Villieneuve had scapegoated everyone he’d considered a danger to his own power, as well as any members of the old government who’d been too well-known, too associated with the repressive past. The executions had gone on for months, retainers and lower-level allies of the murdered Presidium members, government officials, families of the condemned, even enough operatives from the old Sector Nine—his own former agents—to sate the public’s hatred.
After the bloodletting, Villieneuve shifted a cadre of surviving agents, those whose identities had been sufficiently discreet, and recreated the discredited spy agency under the amusing title of the People’s Protectorate. Now, he wanted Lille to take charge, to step into the very same position Villieneuve himself had held before.
Lille still wanted to refuse, but he knew he couldn’t. He and Villieneuve were friends of a sort, but he was well aware that refusing his ally’s request could be dangerous. Villieneuve had eliminated almost all his enemies, and he controlled every tentacle of the government. More amazingly, he’d somehow managed to win over the mob. His requests carried the force of irresistible commands, and refusing him would be unwise in the extreme.
Besides, Lille’s own fortunes were closely tied to Villieneuve’s. If an operative in charge of the reconstituted spy agency, one with his own ambitions, tried to move against Villieneuve, it would be as dire a threat to Lille as to his friend. Lille had no doubts, none at all, that anyone who overthrew Gaston Villeneuve would come for him next.
“Very well, Gaston, but only because you need me.”
Villieneuve nodded. “I knew I could count on you. The PP is not yet up to Sector Nine’s operational standards, but we must be cautious. We cannot rush recruiting. We must maintain the tightest possible control over security, and particularly the new section heads.” Lille knew Villieneuve had kept a tight grip on Sector Nine, but he was just as aware there had always been a fair amount of scheming among the ambitious senior operatives. It seemed his friend was determined to take advantage of the situation to eliminate such problems from the start. Lille doubted that was possible. He had too dark a view of human nature to imagine anything but a swamp of betrayal and corruption surrounding him. But a fresh start would certainly delay the development of conspiracies and plots within the agency. Eliminating such problems, even for a short time, would allow the new regime to cement its position.
“Do I have authority to…handle…anyone I view as a potential problem?” Lille knew his friend was very aware of how he would handle something like that.
“Yes.” It was a simple answer, more direct and unconditional than Lille had expected. Villieneuve really did trust him.
The two men were silent for a few seconds. Then, Lille asked, “What are your top priorities? The…People’s Protectorate…does not yet have the resources Sector Nine enjoyed. We will have to be careful where we deploy our limited assets.”
“The workers’ councils, of course. We need to continue to cement our control over them.”
The workers’ councils had been Lille’s idea, but Villieneuve had taken it further even than his friend had imagined possible. He’d met with them, at least those in the major cities on Montmirail, and he’d passed emergency decrees giving them extraordinary powers to revamp work rules and mete out punishments to former managers, those accused—and nothing more than accusation was necessary—of abuses against the workers under the old regime.
“That is relatively easy on a case by case basis, but we’re talking about thousands of individual councils, Gaston. No matter what we do, it’s going to take time to get to them all.”
Lille was continually amazed at how little it took to entice so many to betray their comrades and their loudly-stated ideals. The efforts to infiltrate the councils had begun with nothing more than extra rations, before progressing to bequests of a more substantive type, such as the homes of former government commissars and promises of political power.
A few men and women had refused such advances, but they were so few, it had been easy enough to do away with them. Some had been killed outright, feigned accidents and the like, but most had simply been denounced to the others as traitors. It was easy enough to create fake trails of payoffs and falsified communications, and the workers, still charged with revolutionary zeal, spent little time analyzing the accuracy of evidence before casting their comrades to the rage of the mob.
“I trust you to prioritize the various worlds. Production centers and resource-rich planets first, of course. As well as strategically-located systems.”
“Understood.” Lille nodded. “But it will take time.”
Villieneuve nodded before continuing. “Barroux is still a problem of course, though I don’t think there’s a solution until we can concentrate enough military power there to crush the traitors. Still…I don’t like the reports I’ve been getting. My gut tells me Confederation Intelligence has been assisting the rebels. We can’t allow the situation there to get any worse. I’d like you to try to get some intelligence assets on the ground there, at least enough to get a read on the Confeds’ involvement. We’ll never retake the planet without a full-scale attack, but I need you at least to try and interdict Confederation interference.”
“I’ll do everything I can there…” Lille paused. “…but, I suggest you also submit a formal complaint to the Confederation Senate. There’s no question Gary Holsten doesn’t trust us, but whatever he’s doing on Barroux, it’s pretty likely he doesn’t have Senate approval. If you can get the Confed politicians on his back, it will do more to slow his efforts than anything Sect…PP…agents can achieve, at least in the near term.”
“That’s a great idea. At the speed they’ve been demobilizing their military, the last thing they want is an incident that might provoke renewed hostilities.” Villieneuve frowned. “Not that we’re in any position to start a new fight ourselves. But that doesn’t stop us from expressing our outrage at this blatant violation of the peace terms.”
Lille nodded in agreement. Then, he asked, “Any other top priorities?”
“Yes…one.” Villieneuve sighed. “You’re aware that the Confederation is sending a fleet to explore deep into the Badlands?”
“Yes…I’d heard a few reports about that. It’s true, then?”
“I’m afraid so.” Villieneuve was silent for a moment. “You know as well as I do how vital old tech is going to be going forward.” His voice tightened, suppressed anger clearly trying to surface. “Tyler Barron and his people cost us victory twice by destroying artifacts we discovered.”
Ricard looked quizzically over at Villieneuve. “I agree with the threat the Confederation’s expedition presents, but I’m not sure what I can do to lessen that.”
“Nothing. At least not regarding the Confederation’s exploration fleet. But there are other sources of old tech. Sector Nine always had an extensive intelligence presence along the Confederation’s border with the Badlands. It was very productive, and I want it reestablished. Immediately.”
“That was a pretty expensive operation, Gaston…bribing frontier prospectors and the like. Are you sure we can spare that much currency?”
“We don’t have a choice. We have no hope of mounting the kind of force the Confeds are sending out, so we’ve got to make do with the closer in worlds. There are still plenty of crews working the border, more than before, now that the war’s over and the frontier bars are flooded with dischar
ged spacers looking for new careers. And, don’t forget, what they do is still illegal in the Confederation. We need to be in this game, Ricard, any way we can. Rebuilding the Union…the Peoples’ Union…is one thing. But we’re going to need more tech too, or we’ll be left behind.”
Lille nodded. “I understand…and I agree completely. As soon as I get the other operations underway, I may even go to the Confederation frontier myself. We’ve got less to work with now, and that means we’ve got to get more from what we can deploy.”
“Do that…I’ll miss having you here, but I’ll feel a hell of a lot better knowing you’re there. We also need to rebuild our operative network in the Confederation, and the frontier is as good a place to start as any. We need to know if they find anything new.”
“Understood.” Lille looked down for a few seconds, amused, and mildly depressed as well, at the discolored gray metal of the desk where the effective dictator of the Union—or the roughly eighty percent of it over which he’d managed to retain or regain control, at least—worked every day. It was a far cry from the priceless antiques that had filled Villieneuve’s previous office. Lille understood the reasoning, and he couldn’t argue with the massive success his friend had achieved through his playacting…but part of him missed the days of more open luxury, at least for those in power. He didn’t doubt Villieneuve lived in the same obscene decadence he had before, but now that kind of thing took place strictly behind closed doors.
“Well…” Lille looked up, reestablishing eye contact. “It will take me several weeks to get the operations started that will cement our control over the workers’ councils.” He paused. “We’ve picked low-hanging fruit so far, the councils close to home, the ones we could focus on ourselves. You know there’s going to be slippage, foul-ups, especially on the planets farther out. I will set forth specific operating criteria, but some agents will screw up, others will run into particularly troublesome councils.” He hesitated. “At some point, we’re going to have to go back and clean up the problems. Random disappearances and scripted denouncements are useful, but eventually, we’re just going to have to send in the Foudre Rouge…or whatever we’re calling them now.”
“The People’s Army, you mean.” Villieneuve’s eyes were locked on Lille’s, and the expression on his face was deadly serious. “And, yes, they will undoubtedly be needed to execute the final stage of the operation. But the more we can handle with clandestine means, the better off we will be. We’ve done what we had to do, my friend, to survive, and to exploit the situation. It will take time to establish the level of control we need, to rebuild our forces and infiltrate every important group, to establish enhanced surveillance and throw the workers back in their place. But we will get there.” There was a silence in the room that seemed to bring the temperature down several degrees.
“When we do, Ricard, these people—these workers—will learn to appreciate whatever we choose to give them. And they will come to understand real fear.”
Chapter Three
Troyus City
Planet Megara, Olyus III
Year 315 AC
“Ty, I don’t have to tell you how important this mission is…you know that, probably better than anyone.” Admiral Van Striker sat at the conference table, his eyes darting back and forth between Barron and Gary Holsten.
The head of Confederation Intelligence had been uncharacteristically quiet, mostly watching as Striker and Barron discussed the mission. He was deep in thought, concerned about sending Tyler Barron and thousands of spacers so deep into the unknown. He’d been a part of the decision-making apparatus that had sent men and women to war often enough, into battles that had killed legions of them. But there was something different about this. Barron and his people would be the first Confederation spacers to journey so far from home…and in a way back in time as well, as they ventured deep into the heart of the dead ancient empire.
“No, sir, you don’t.” Barron sat upright, looking a little stiff. Not exactly nervous, but a bit agitated, perhaps. “The last war made it pretty clear that the next one won’t be won by heroics or economic might. There’s too much technology out there, left over from the past, and if the pulsar taught us anything, it’s what kind of difference even a single artifact can make.”
“You know better than anyone what a close thing that was. If you hadn’t managed to destroy the thing, who knows what might have happened. Foudre Rouge could be marching on Megara even now.” Striker leaned back and took a deep breath. “We’re very restricted by the treaties governing old tech, Tyler…but even if we have to share any finds with the other powers, it’s better than risking someone else discovering something like the pulsar…someone a little less…dedicated…to treaty obligations.” Striker’s tone left little doubt he thought the whole notion of sharing artifacts was ridiculous, and that if it had been up to him, he’d have told Barron to hide anything his expedition found.
“Tyler…” Holsten finally spoke. He’d had something he wanted to say since they’d all sat down together, one last meeting before the fleet set out. But it wasn’t based on hard data or intel, only on a feeling that had plagued his gut. “I would tell you to be careful out there, but I know that’s not necessary. Still…” He paused, his edginess as clear, he suspected, to his two companions as it was to himself. “It’s just that…we like to think of ourselves, this small cluster of habitation so close to the Rim, as all that is left of humanity after the Cataclysm.”
“Are you suggesting there are others?” Striker sounded surprised. “We’ve never had any indications of any other survivors.”
Holsten took a deep breath and exhaled. “And, we’ve never gone as far as we’re about to either.” He paused. “I’m just saying, we really don’t know what’s out there…or even how vast the empire was, how many hundreds—thousands—of systems are connected by warp points, how far that web stretches. We’ve never had any real data on what lies out beyond the limited range that’s been explored. Even the hardiest frontier smugglers have stayed fairly close to the border…ten, maybe even twenty transits. What if the transwarp network goes on for scores of systems? Hundreds? Thousands? How could we possibly even guess at what’s out there?”
The three men were silent for a moment. Finally, Barron said, “Well, I guess that’s one reason we’re going. To find out. I’m more concerned right now with locating refinable fuel sources than I am with stumbling on ghosts of the old empire…but I can promise both of you, we’ll keep our eyes open for anything that might be out there.”
“Do that, Ty. In the war, at least you knew when you were heading into danger. This time, you’ve got no idea what to expect. Once you get past the close-in Badlands, every jump will be into the unknown. What records we’ve got of imperial times are so incomplete, they’re almost useless. Trust your gut, and remember…you have the authority to end the mission and return at any time. If you run into danger, no matter what it is, come home.” Holsten wasn’t used to feeling as uneasy as he did. He’d been the leading proponent of the mission, but he’d become increasingly nervous as time passed and the departure date approached. He had no idea what Barron and his fleet would find, none at all. There was no useful intelligence, no real data of any kind. He didn’t like shooting blind, and he’d come to realize that, if he could go back a year and a half to when he’d first been one of the plan’s enthusiastic proponents, he might pull his support. He didn’t have any new knowledge, no more reason to fear what might happen than he had back on Grimaldi. But the ache in his gut had gotten steadily worse.
“I’ll be careful, Gary. Don’t worry about that. This is just an exploration mission, and as creepy as plunging through dead and haunted systems might be, if I get the slightest idea that something’s wrong, I’ll be back here in a flash.”
Holsten didn’t believe that. Barron’s career hadn’t exactly been a demonstration in shying away from danger. But there was nothing he could do about it, not now. It was far too late to cancel the expeditio
n. And the original impetus, the need to get as much old tech as possible was as valid as ever.
Nothing to do but wish Barron the best of luck and shake his hand. And, he did just that.
* * *
“Welcome, Commander Globus. I am honored by your presence. I didn’t expect an officer of such rank and experience to command the Alliance contingent.” The Palatians had sent a small flotilla, three battleships and half a dozen escorts. Their contribution was more about inclusion and helping to sustain and develop the Confederation-Alliance relationship than it was about providing needed strength and power to the fleet. Still, after watching Jovi Grachus and her pilots out at the Bottleneck, Barron knew he would never take any number of Palatian warriors on his side for granted.
“The honor is mine, Admiral Barron. Your name is as well known in the Alliance as in the Confederation, and nearly as revered, I daresay.”
Barron suspected there was some diplomatic nicety in Globus’s statement. Barron had aided Tarkus Vennius and the Gray Alliance during the civil war, and the current Imperator, Vian Tulus, was a man Barron included on the small list of men and women he called true friends. But he’d first encountered the Alliance as an enemy, the man who had destroyed Invictus, and killed Katrine Regulus and her crew. It has been less than three years since he’d led the assault that crushed Palatia’s orbital defenses and laid the planet open to invasion. That had been done in the service of Vennius and the Gray Alliance forces, but Barron knew enough about Palatian martial pride to understand that had to be a cause of resentment among some officers.
It didn’t require looking any farther than the vengeful rage that had driven Jovi Grachus for so long to understand the mixed feelings many in the Alliance no doubt had toward him.
