by Jay Allan
He opened his eyes again, taking another breath, and then he leaned forward, lowering his eyes to the high-powered microscope on the table. He could hardly see the virus specimens, even with the scope on maximum magnification. Isolating them had proven to be immensely difficult. They were tiny even by the standards of the microscopic universe, less than one-millionth the size of a typical cell. The contagion’s extreme ability to penetrate most protective gear had as much to do with size as anything else. The virus’s size allowed it to work its way through otherwise impermeable barriers. It also made research, and any attempts to combat it, that much harder.
The Master had given him the idea he was pursuing now. He’d already been analyzing the blood of the locals, trying to determine what it was that protected them from the deadly pathogen. At first, he’d wondered if it was something in the native food, or some other factor that affected the people living on the planet. Then, after speaking with the Master, he realized the utter simplicity of it. There was a genetic immunity factor, one that appeared to be extremely rare—even non-existent—in those from the Rim, but perhaps more common in people living closer to the empire’s old core.
Even more likely, it had been rare on this planet as well, and on all others on which the bacteriological weapon had been unleashed…but the disease had killed anyone who hadn’t possessed it. Everyone living on the planet now—and possibly on countless others—was descended from those few survivors.
The answer was in the blood of the locals, and in their genes, he was sure of it now. And, he believed he’d found it. He looked down at the small canister on the table, at the pinkish liquid inside. He’d need more blood from the locals to make enough to treat the entire landing party, but he had enough now for a test.
Normally, he’d have picked the sickest of his patients, or asked for volunteers. But he didn’t have time for that. He was succumbing fast, and he had to keep himself going long enough to finish the job. He would take the first dose himself.
He glanced at the small injector on the table. He had no idea how the shot would affect him, what side effects it might have…or even if it would kill him instantly. It went against all his medical training to move so quickly and recklessly, but there just wasn’t time for more testing and analysis. Any testing and analysis.
He reached down and grabbed the injector. He took a deep breath, as much to steel his courage as anything else…and then he pressed the device against his arm, feeling the strange, almost itchy sensation as several dozen micro-injectors slid into his flesh, each of them too small to cause actual pain.
He felt nothing at first, at least not beyond the vague discomfort of the shot itself. He stood where he was for a moment, and then he reached down to pick up the analyzer.
His hand made it about halfway to the device when the pain hit him. He cried out and doubled over, reaching out for the table, trying to grab onto something. He succeeded only in pulling over the table and dumping half the glassware on top of him as he fell.
He lay there on his back, wincing from the pain. It felt like fire, somewhere deep inside his body. He struggled to overcome it, to somehow get back up. He needed to examine himself, to run the analyzer. But he could hardly move. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. He just looked up at the ceiling of the small prehab structure for a few seconds.
Then, everything went dark.
* * *
Dauntless shook hard. It was the first hit the flagship had suffered in the fight against the enemy vessels, and Barron twisted around, instinctively leaning down to the comm to call up damage control. Fritz wasn’t Dauntless’s chief engineer anymore, at least not officially, but as the commander of the fleet’s engineering and research operation, she was still billeted on the flagship. Barron didn’t have the slightest doubt she’d be in engineering by then, orders or no.
He was about to tap the controls and connect to the engineering section, when he heard Sonya Eaton already speaking to someone. He felt annoyed for an instant, and just as quickly pushed it away, replaced it with respect for his aide. She’d taken on most of Atara Travis’s duties in addition to her own, and she’d managed to handle them all perfectly, even in the middle of a battle. He smiled as he realized she was speaking with Fritz.
“All systems are still operational, Admiral…including the primary batteries.” She turned toward him to report the instant she disconnected from Fritz. “There are some scattered burnouts, and some significant damage to one of the bays, but otherwise…”
“We got off light.” Barron finished his aide’s thought, even as his eyes moved to the display, to the power gauge for the main guns. The primaries were almost ready to fire again, and Barron was impatient. He knew full well that one solid hit from those enemy beams could knock out the whole system. And, the entire fleet was still outside the maximum range of the secondary batteries. He didn’t relish running another gauntlet through the enemy’s fire to get back into range. He was still staring at the small bar charts on the display when they maxed out, and an instant later the telltale flickering of lights on the control center told him the guns had fired.
And missed. He sighed softly as he watched the display update. All four of Dauntless’s primaries had missed. He was accustomed to far better targeting, and his disappointment manifested as frustration. He knew it wasn’t the fault of the ship, or her crew. He still had most of the veterans from the old Dauntless at their posts, and he knew they were the best. No, it was the enemy’s evasive maneuvers, and the AI systems that ran them. The tech was better than anything his people had, and the seemingly random shifts in acceleration and vector were confounding his gunners and their targeting computers.
Barron turned toward Eaton and looked as though he was going to say something. But then he just turned toward his own comm unit and slapped his hand down on the controls. “Gunnery, this is Admiral Barron. These ships are killing us with their evasion programs. Standard fire control isn’t going to get the job done. You’re veterans, all of you…you’ve been to hell and back. Adjust your targeting AIs, let your experience and your intuition help.” He wasn’t sure any of what he said really made sense, but he knew he had to do something. And just telling his people to do better seemed inadequate.
He also knew that he was no longer the ship’s commander, that he should have given his orders to Eaton and let her pass them on. This wasn’t even his Dauntless. That vessel, the one into which he’d poured so much of himself, was gone, blasted to dust, a legend that would live on forever in Confederation history, but nowhere else. This was Atara Travis’s ship, and Eaton was filling in for her. But he couldn’t stop himself. They could pin so many stars on his shoulders that he couldn’t stand without assistance, and he would still be a ship’s captain at heart. And something of the old Dauntless, perhaps no more even than the spirit of the people who’d served both vessels, lived on in this new incarnation. He’d be damned if he was going to sit and watch her miss with shot after shot.
He turned toward the display, his eyes moving from one icon to another. Half a dozen of his ships had some level of significant damage, and Regency and Exeter were in bad shape, not far, he was afraid, from following Formidable to a grisly end.
He wasn’t concerned the fleet would lose the battle, not in the end. His people simply had too much of a numerical advantage. But on any kind of even basis, an analysis of the fight ship for ship or ton for ton, there was one inescapable conclusion, and it gored at him, cut into him like a blade shoved into his gut.
His people were getting crushed.
Chapter Thirty-One
Confederation Intelligence Headquarters
Port Royal City, Planet Dannith, Ventica III
315 AC
“Do it.” Holsten’s voice was cold, his eyes fixed, not a spark of mercy or pity in them.
The man hesitated. He was one of Confederation Intelligence’s best, an agent who’d served Holsten for years, who’d shown nothing but utter loyalty as he was sent int
o one deadly situation after another. But he was clearly uncomfortable with Holsten’s orders.
“Do it,” Holsten repeated, his tone firm, but without anger. He was commanding his agent to do something unethical, immoral…and in the Confederation, illegal. It was an act that could send them both to the deepest, darkest prison on the Confederation’s farthest and most remote frozen penal moon. For a long, long time.
And Holsten didn’t care.
The agent took a deep breath and hesitated for another few seconds, perhaps half a minute, looking in Holsten’s general direction, but avoiding eye contact. The spymaster just stood where he was, unmoving, silent, his very persona radiating an aura of merciless intensity. Finally, the agent looked for a few more seconds toward the haggard, exhausted looking man shackled to the metal chair, and his hands tightened on the controls in front of him.
The prisoner screamed, a mournful, pathetic shriek that would have been heard for blocks around, if the room hadn’t been entirely soundproof. He strained at the shackles that held him to the chair, moved his body frantically, trying to shake free from the electrodes attached to his body. But Gary Holsten had placed those clamps himself, and they were secure. They’d come off when the captive told him what he wanted to know, and not a second before.
Holsten had exceeded his authority before. He’d spied on Confederation Senators, and used the dirt he’d gathered to influence—blackmail, he’d even admit—them to do what he felt had to be done. But, he’d never used any of that for personal gain. Everything he had done had been for the Confederation. For all the times he’d stepped over the line, for the dissolute image of a spoiled and privileged scion of immense wealth that covered for his position as the head of Confederation Intelligence, Holsten had always considered himself a true patriot.
But this was personal. Andi’s survival wasn’t crucial to the Confederation. She was one of his agents, and he’d lost many people over the years. The job was a dangerous one, and she’d volunteered of her own free will. But, none of that mattered, not to Holsten. Not now.
Lafarge, for all her past illicit activities and the fact that she was long somewhat of an outlaw, had served the Confederation well. Her greatest contribution, a heavily-classified secret only a select few knew of in detail, had arguably saved the Confederation from utter defeat. Tyler Barron had been showered with awards and acclimations or his role in destroying the pulsar—well deserved ones, in Holsten’s book—but the brilliant officer wouldn’t have had the slightest chance of getting through to the enemy superweapon if Andi Lafarge hadn’t found the stealth generator and brought it back to Grimaldi.
She deserved better than to be abandoned, written off as the cost of a botched operation. Whatever it took, Holsten was going to get her back…if he had to tear Dannith down brick by brick to do it.
Lafarge was his friend, and that was reason enough to him, but he also felt he owed it to Tyler Barron. No one man or woman had done as much to see the Confederation through the war to victory, or at least whatever version of victory the Senate’s acquiescence had allowed. Holsten was well aware of Barron’s feelings for Andi, of the tortured, on and off again dance the two had done for several years now. And he knew, as unlikely as it appeared at first glance, they were perfect for each other, and eventually, they would set aside the immense baggage they both carried and do something about it. Something lasting.
As long as he got Andi out…
“Again,” he said coldly, his eyes fixed on the haggard man in the chair. Holsten didn’t take torture lightly, but he’d fought against Sector Nine long enough to understand his enemy. The Union’s spy agency—and they were still Sector Nine to him, whatever they’d taken to calling themselves—didn’t hesitate to inflict all manner of pain and torment on its prisoners. He knew very well that more than a few of his lost agents had died in agony, interrogated for all they had to offer their enemies. And, the man sitting in the chair was a Sector Nine agent. God only knew what horrors he had inflicted on his own victims. Confederation ideals were one thing, but in Holsten’s mind, there was some kind of justice in what he was doing.
Or, at least, he told himself that. Because he had no intention of stopping until the prisoner gave him the location of every Sector Nine hideout on Dannith.
The agent had paused again—Holsten understood the man’s reticence, but it was pissing him off nevertheless—but then he hit the switch. The prisoner screamed again, a primal howl, as his body convulsed. A few seconds later, the agent flipped the switch back, and the prisoner collapsed in the chair. Tears streamed down his face, and he gasped for air, trying to say something, but unable to get the words out.
“Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?” Holsten stepped forward and glared at the man. “Because, if you don’t, I will flip this switch, and my associate and I will walk out of this room and go out for lunch, maybe a few beers. You’ll be a smoking black stain on the chair by the time we come back.”
The prisoner’s terror was clear, but Holsten was far from certain the torture would break the Sector Nine agent, at least in the time he had. The Union’s spy agency training and conditioning programs were, legendary. And, no one who’d served in their ranks could doubt the consequences of cooperating with the enemy, both for them, if they returned home, and for their families.
Holsten was usually very controlled and methodical in his actions. But, he could feel that slipping away. His determination to rescue Andi was part of it, but he knew it had been brewing longer than that. He’d watched Van Striker and his spacers fight their way from the brink of disaster to the verge of victory, and he knew only too well the price they had paid to get there. It hadn’t shocked him when the Senate ignored a century of history and naively accepted Gaston Villieneuve’s peace proposal, but it had drained him of…something. All the fighting, the death, the constant struggles…and the Senate had thrown it all away, virtually guaranteed another generation of Confederation spacers and Marines would face the horrors of war.
He felt strangely helpless, angry with himself at his inability to prevent the ceasefire, to give Striker and his people the chance to truly defeat the Union, to topple its government, and to ensure that it would become a good and peaceful neighbor, and not a deadly threat, as it had been since the Confederation’s earliest days. Somehow, he’d made Andi Lafarge the focus of all that frustration and rage. If he couldn’t see the Union defeated, couldn’t contain the Senate’s folly…at least he could save his friend.
“It’s decision time, Rob.” It was the first time he’d used the prisoner’s name. The past hours had been an exercise in dehumanizing the captive, but now Holsten was going to offer the man an escape. “You don’t need to suffer like this. Help us, and I’ll see that you’re safe. We help our friends. Tell me where your compatriots are keeping Andi Lafarge…and I will see that you are pardoned for your crimes, allowed to emigrate to the Confederation. And, I will personally see that you have a place to live and enough money to enjoy the rest of your life in peace and luxury.” Holsten turned toward the small console that controlled the electrical current. “Or, you can get fried right here, like a strip of overdone bacon.” He turned and leaned forward, bringing his eyes a few centimeters from the captives. “Make your choice.”
It was a gamble, he knew. If he threatened to kill the prisoner and didn’t, it would drain some of the power from future threats. And, if he followed through, if he electrocuted the captive, he’d lose the best potential source of intel he had to track down Andi’s whereabouts.
Not to mention, increasing his list of crimes to include murder.
“I don’t know…”
Holsten exhaled, his fists curling up in an involuntary reaction at the prisoner’s stubbornness. But then, the man’s voice continued, “I don’t know where she is…but I know almost every safe house and hidden base we’ve got on Dannith.”
Holsten felt the smile forming on his face. He’d done it. He’d broken the prisoner. He’d viola
ted countless Confederation laws to do it, become something very similar to those he’d always despised. But he would think about all that later. Right now, he needed to find Andi.
Before it was too late.
* * *
“Mr. Holsten, my name is Walter Aguillar. I am chief of staff to Senator Ferrell.”
“Yes, Mr…Aguillar…I’m afraid I am very occupied at the moment. Whatever you have come to tell me will just have to wait.”
Holsten took a few steps past the pompous-looking official. He was wearing light body armor, and he had an assault rifle in his hand. He’d gotten what he needed from the Sector Nine agent—at least he hoped he had—and he was on his way to find Andi. The prisoner was in rough shape, but Holsten was a man of his word, at least as much as a spy could be. He couldn’t send the tortured agent to the main hospital in Port Royal City, of course, but he’d taken steps to make sure the man was receiving care. If the intel the agent had provided him proved to be accurate, Holsten would follow through on every one of his promises. He would see that the Union spy—former Union spy—lived out his life in luxury and comfort.
And, if he found out the prisoner had lied to him…well, that would have another, far less pleasant, result.
“I’m afraid it can’t wait, Mr. Holsten. I have a Senatorial…”
“It will have to wait,” Holsten snapped as he turned toward rack on the wall and grabbed a utility bag full of grenades.
“I can only imagine where you are going in a Confederation city in time of peace armed like that, Mr. Holsten, but I can assure you, it stops now. I have a Senatorial decree ordering you to return to Megara at once to explain your actions on Dannith. You are to come with me, right…” The bureaucrat’s voice vanished to silence as Holsten pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it right between the man’s eyes.
