The White Fleet (Blood on the Stars Book 7)

by Jay Allan

  Lille glanced back quickly toward the aide, almost correcting the woman’s nomenclature again, but then deciding it was pointless. He understood Villieneuve’s purposes in instituting the new system, but just calling everyone “Citizen” wasn’t very useful in most situations. His people were all Sector Nine veterans, agents who were clever enough, or who’d maintained a low enough profile, to escape the bloodletting that had cleared the way for Gaston Villieneuve to become the hero of the revolution. They were good, all of them, but they were also used to a hierarchal system, and he was accustomed to being close to the top of such a pyramid.

  “Yes, what is it?” His impatience was clear in his tone. It wasn’t directed at the operative—though he doubted she’d come with good news. Andi Lafarge was proving much harder to break than he’d expected. He’d held back from the harshest treatments, anything that would cause permanent damage. Lafarge had spent her life as an outlaw in the eyes of the Confederation, and, in his view, she had no cause to exhibit loyalty to a government that had condemned and hassled her all her life. He’d allowed himself to hope he could win her over eventually, convince her to join forces with him…and to reap the true benefits of her extraordinary—and unorthodox—skillset.

  She was stubborn, he’d known that much going in, but she was a survivor, too. She had to know the only way she was going to get out alive was to agree to work with him. He’d heard rumors that she’d had an extraordinary windfall, one which had made her breathtakingly wealthy…and, consequently, immune to bribery. But if those whispers were true, what the hell was she doing on Dannith, poking around the seedy adventurers’ bars that dotted the Promenade?

  “Sir…” The aide had hesitated, clearly aware that he was distracted.

  “Go on.” He turned and looked toward the agent, still only half paying attention.

  “We have confirmed that Dannith is under quarantine. All ship traffic, both in and out, has been halted. The spaceports are closed down, and we have multiple sources confirming that a naval squadron is in position around the planet.”

  Ricard’s distractions slipped away. He’d heard several reports of the sort the aide was giving him, but none of them had been confirmed until now. But the Confeds had closed down Dannith…and that was a problem. First, it meant he was trapped there. He might have made a run past a quarantine order, but if the Confed navy was up there enforcing it…that pretty much removed that option.

  Perhaps the more dangerous question was, why had they taken such action? It couldn’t be just because he’d grabbed Lafarge. He knew she’d had some interactions with the navy in recent years—and that she’d had a sporadic dalliance with Tyler Barron—but he hadn’t considered any serious implications. Could that be it? Is she closer to Barron than I thought?

  He shook his head. Any serious connection between Barron and Lafarge changed things dramatically. If she was truly involved with the admiral, his chances of winning her over to his side were far less than he’d hoped. It might mean that Lafarge was truly committed to Confederation Intelligence—and his plans would have to change. If he couldn’t win her over, he had to find out everything she knew, and her true purpose on Dannith.

  He wasn’t ready to give up on her entirely, not yet, at least. But he was far closer to doing so than he’d been a few minutes ago. The loss of Lafarge as a potential asset would hurt his plans. She’d have been invaluable as one of his operatives. But giving up on recruiting her would have its advantages. He could focus entirely on getting information out of her.

  And he could use more…aggressive…means to extract what he needed. He’d no longer have to be concerned about causing permanent damage, especially since he’d be putting a pair of bullets in her head when he was done with her anyway.

  Chapter Nineteen

  CFS Repulse

  Zed-11 System

  Year 315 AC

  “Yes, Commodore, I had three separate reports, each from a different team. Every section of debris they’ve searched is completely cleaned out, all the equipment—or what was left of it—removed, nothing but the main structures remaining. I thought that was something you needed to know as soon as possible.”

  “Removed? Are they certain?” Eaton sat in the center of Repulse’s bridge, the huge space suddenly devoid of the normal chatter and background noise. If she’d known what Stockton was going to report, she’d have had him piped directly to her headset instead of broadcasting on the main speakers.

  “That was my perception, Commodore. We didn’t discuss it at length, but all three groups reported similar findings.”

  “Very well, Captain.” Eaton sat for a few seconds, silent. The truth was, she didn’t know what to say, or what to do. The news was unsettling, but far from conclusive. Was it possible some border adventurers had made it out this far some time over the last century? It seemed unlikely…impossible, she’d almost call it. Yet, that would explain Stockton’s report…in a far less unsettling manner than anything else bouncing around in her mind. “You made the right decision to expedite the report, Captain Stockton,” she added abruptly. “Repulse should reestablish communications with the teams in ten minutes. As soon as we’re in position, land your fighters and send out fresh ones. I want the orbital areas patrolled constantly, Captain.”

  “Understood, Commodore. I’ll see to it. Stockton out.”

  Eaton leaned back in her chair. She could feel every eye on the bridge boring into her. Her people had been on edge, if not since the mission began, certainly since the fleet had discovered the first active scanning device. Individual tolerances varied for feeling far from home, lost in the endless dark…but by now, pretty much everyone in the fleet was dealing with a heavy dose of stress. Stockton’s report only made that worse.

  “All right, I want all stations ready. As soon as we come about, we’re launching shuttles to retrieve the teams. I want them brought aboard Repulse for debriefing at once. And I want twice as many fresh teams sent out. We’re going to examine every piece of orbital debris out there, one at a time, and we’re going to see if they’re all in the same condition.”

  “Yes, Commodore.”

  Her order spurred some activity, a bit of chatter going back and forth between stations. But the activity level was subdued, her people still distracted by what they’d heard.

  “That wasn’t a request, people,” she said, her voice stern and loud. “We’ve got shuttles to prepare and exploration teams to get ready, and not much time. Move it!”

  The bridge erupted into a nervous beehive of activity, half a dozen voices suddenly speaking into comm units, and most of the other officers busy at their workstations. That was good. Better for them to be thinking about work than wondering who—or what—had taken the equipment from those space station segments.

  “Bay command reports shuttles will be ready to launch in sixteen minutes, Commodore.”

  “No,” she said coldly. “I want them ready in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, Commodore.”

  She listened as the officer repeated the order. She suspected whoever was on duty in launch control was arguing that ten minutes wasn’t enough time, but she didn’t care. Her people were good, but there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that their performance had slipped a notch since the war. Nothing matched the threat of impending death and destruction to inspire the best possible performance.

  At least nothing but a commodore and hardcore combat veteran breathing down their necks.

  Eaton didn’t let herself get carried away with her thoughts, imagining there was any combat imminent, or anything like that…but she’d been edgy since the fleet left Confederation space, and now she was as tense as she’d been since the ceasefire had ended combat and sent her ships back to friendly territory.

  “Launch control acknowledges, Commodore. Shuttles will be ready in ten minutes.”

  “Very well.” Eaton nodded, feeling a touch of satisfaction…and wondering if the new exploration teams would be ready and mounted up as quickly
as the shuttles themselves.

  She glanced at the main display, watching as the oval that represented Repulse moved slowly around the large sphere of the planet. Then, she stood up abruptly. “I’ll be in my office. Report anything at all out of the ordinary to me immediately.”

  “Yes, Commodore.”

  She took a few steps toward the back of the bridge, to the small corridor that led to her private office. She had to report this to Tyler Barron, and the sooner the better. Dauntless was still a good fifteen light seconds away, which made a two-sided communication possible, if frustrating. She wasn’t sure how Barron would react, or what orders he might give her…but she was damned sure she wanted to have that conversation in private.

  She stopped just outside the hallway and turned back. “And bring Captain Stockton to me the instant he lands.”

  “Yes, Commodore.”

  She hesitated for a few seconds, and then she walked down the corridor and into her office.

  * * *

  The shuttle shook hard, skipping off the atmosphere as it continued its descent from orbit. The planet’s air was a bit heavier than Megara’s, and that made for a rougher ride, and a tougher workout for the heat shields.

  Bryan Rogan had seen worse, of course. Serving seven years under Tyler Barron had been many things, but one thing they hadn’t been was quiet. Rogan still had nightmares from the battle his Marines had fought with Alliance stormtroopers on Santis. That had been a small engagement—insignificant, perhaps, by historical standards—but it was a near certainty that no one who’d fought there would ever forget any of it.

  Rogan had worn a captain’s insignia then, and his command had consisted of approximately two hundred men and women, Dauntless’s Marine contingent plus a few survivors from the Santis garrison. Now, a pair of stars sat in the place those captain’s bars had occupied, and the two companies he commanded had grown to a reinforced brigade of over four thousand Marines, every one of them a veteran from the Union War.

  Rogan had been based on the new Dauntless—no one who’d served on the first ship to bear that name could think of the massive new battleship of anything other than the “new” or “second” one—but he’d transferred temporarily to Repulse when Commodore Eaton took her force to the advanced guard position. He hadn’t particularly expected his Marines to be needed for anything beyond routine duty guarding the landing party camps on any planets worth exploring, but now he wasn’t so sure. He’d heard enough of the reports from the orbital search parties to reignite his Marine’s suspicion. He didn’t know if the search teams would run into old tech systems that were still operational, or some kind of rogue adventurers farther out than anyone had imagined possible…but he was damned sure of one thing. It was his job to make sure everyone Eaton or Barron sent down was protected.

  And Bryan Rogan took his job very seriously.

  He shifted in his seat, feeling every minute of the year or more since he’d been fully armored for battle. It was probably overkill—from the complaints he’d heard from his Marines, they clearly thought it was—but he wasn’t taking chances. His people would be the first ones out of the shuttles…and they would be setting foot on a world vastly distant from home, from anything familiar. Rogan wasn’t taking chances.

  “We’ll be down in about three minutes, General.”

  Rogan nodded, though he realized, of course, the pilot up in the cockpit couldn’t see him. “Acknowledged,” he finally said. He sucked in a deep breath immediately after, doing what he could to hold back the nausea. Rogan had done his share of combat landings, but he’d never gotten quite completely used to the stomach churning aspects of the whole enterprise.

  He flipped on his comm unit, activating the main channel. “All right, Marines, we’ll be on the ground in a few minutes. I want everybody sharp. You know the procedures, and I don’t want to see any sloppiness just because there aren’t any Foudre Rouge out there waiting to blow your brains out. Every one of you knows where you’re supposed to be, so stay sharp and get it done.”

  Rogan felt a small grin forming on his face. He had about seventy Marines with the landing group, two platoons. He remembered his days as a young Marine, and how nervous it would have made him to have a general in direct command of the force. Rogan knew he probably should have delegated the duty to one of his junior officers, but rank did have its privileges, after all.

  And, after almost two years of quiet, routine post-war duty, he wasn’t about to miss out on the first landing on an ancient imperial world.

  “Keep your eyes open, and report anything that seems strange. Even if it’s just a tightness in your gut you think is this morning’s breakfast. No one is to take any chances.” He paused, then added, “And, keep those breathers on until you get orders to the contrary.”

  The probes had confirmed the atmosphere was breathable, and preliminary scans hadn’t detected any unusual pathogens. That made sense, since it appeared that millions of people had once lived on the planet. Still, Commodore Eaton had ordered full precautions to be taken until the ground teams could confirm the drones’ analysis.

  He reached down and grabbed the mask hanging down at his side, strapping it across his head and tucking the strap under the back of his helmet. He tapped the small switch on his side, and he felt the cool, oxygen-heavy air begin to flow.

  There was an immediate rush, a burst of energy and awareness as the oxygen-heavy gas filled his lungs. His eyes darted around the cabin, noting every detail as the nineteen other Marines present more or less copied his actions. He looked up at the main screen. Less than thirty seconds to landing.

  His stomach tightened, his whole body tensing up. This mission would likely be nothing more than routine security for the landing parties, but his combat reflexes had been hardwired by all the action he’d seen, and his instincts reacted as they would for a combat drop.

  He reached around for the assault rifle he realized wasn’t there. He had a sidearm, but he’d advanced well into the ranks that rarely carried weapons heavier than pistols, especially when it wasn’t a combat assault. Still, his reflexes remembered his earlier days, and his hands felt empty without the feel of his old Mark IX rifle.

  The shuttle shook as the landing thrusters fired and lowered the ship gently—fairly gently, at least—onto the ground. We’re here. On a planet no one has visited since the Cataclysm.

  He felt exhilarated…and nervous too. This was something new.

  “Let’s go,” he roared, slapping his hands down on the harness release and jumping to his feet the instant the ready light turned green. Even as he turned toward the rear of the shuttle, the back ramp began to open, dropping hard into place.

  He raced toward the opening, his eyes catching the rays of sunlight pouring in, reflecting off the metal of the ramp. He knew a general should wait, allow his Marines to exit first and secure the area, but Rogan hadn’t led from behind when he’d been heading toward thousands of Foudre Rouge, dug in and supported by heavy weapons. He wasn’t about to hang back and hide behind his Marines on a dead and empty world. Besides, his curiosity was almost overpowering. He was about to see something humanity hadn’t seen for centuries.

  He ran out into the bright sunshine, feeling the gentle warmth of the day, an almost perfect temperature. There was a light breeze, and above, he gazed at a bright blue sky, with just a few puffy white clouds. It was as pleasant a sight as he’d seen on Megara, or any other world of the Confederation.

  But the euphoria didn’t last.

  He turned his head and looked off to the north. The shuttle had landed on a large rise overlooking a long valley, and he froze as he saw it. A city, one the probes had located from the air. A vast metropolis that stretched almost as far as the eye could see.

  And one that was nothing but shattered remains of steel girders covered with overgrown rubble.

  He’d known it was there, of course—he’d come looking for it—and yet he was stunned at the actual sight of the thing.


  There were a few shadowy structures, low buildings that had at least partially survived whatever had destroyed the city…but most of what he saw was rubble, fields of debris extending to the horizon. Shattered masonry and twisted girders of steel, melted and reformed, protruded from the ground at all angles.

  He’d been to Troyus City, the Confederation’s capital, a dozen times, and each time he’d walked away amazed at the magnificence of what his people had built. But Troyus was scarcely a rural village compared to what this immense metropolis had been.

  Rogan tried to imagine the magnificent skyline of vast buildings that had once stood there, but nothing now reached more than ten or twenty meters from the tortured ground. All around, plant growth had encroached on what had once been humanity’s domain, and even in the dead city’s center, vines climbed and twisted all around the blackened, skeletal remains of buildings.

  He turned and glanced back at his people. The Marines from his own shuttle had formed a rough circle around the craft, their weapons drawn and ready, but their eyes all focused on the remains of the ancient city.

  The scientists and others on the shuttle were coming out now, moving up behind the Marines. They were just as mesmerized by the sight laying before them. Half a dozen shuttles were down now, their passengers beginning to stream out as the other ships of the expedition continued to land.

  Rogan pulled his attention away from the city, checking on the Marine contingents deploying all around the hill. “Let’s go, Marines,” he snapped into his comm. “The city is interesting, but you’ve all got jobs to do…so let’s get to it.”

  He turned back and walked toward a trio of technicians who were setting up a portable comm station. “Status?”

  “We’ll have it up and running in a minute, sir.”

  Rogan nodded. As soon as the station was working, he had to report back to Commodore Eaton. Rogan had no problem commanding the Marine detachment and handling security for the landing parties, but for reasons that escaped him, Eaton had put him in command of the entire expedition. It wasn’t unreasonable, considering his rank, but he couldn’t help but feel he had no place ordering the scientists and engineers around, not to mention archeologists, medical teams, and a dozen other types of experts.