by Jay Allan
Outside the Imperial Palace
Victorum, Alliance Capital City
Astara II, Palatia
Year 61 (310 AC)
“Commander, this has to be finished. Now.” Ricard Lille stood next to Calavius, wearing the uniform of an Alliance Legatus. He’d been all over the city, checking on every aspect of the coup in progress, and he’d been satisfied at every step. Until now.
“I just sent in more troops. I can only use handpicked forces here. Not every Alliance soldier can be trusted to storm the palace. It’s one thing to take a bribe or join the rising out of anger at what has happened before…and quite another to attack the palace and kill the Imperatrix. Many of those in our service would abandon us if forced to make that choice.” Calavius sounded confident about the status of the operation, but Lille bet himself it was bullshit. He understood the uncertainty about who would actually pull the trigger and kill the Imperatrix when it came to it, but concerns about trustworthy personnel notwithstanding, he’d expected the palace to be taken by now, and he was sure the Palatian had as well.
“There are no excuses, Commander. I have the materials we discussed. Everything is ready to go. In the morning, we will utilize the communications networks you have just seized. We will begin to discredit the Imperatrix and her supporters, to justify what was done as necessary to prevent disaster. But she must be dead by then. If she is still alive, barricaded in her fortress and under fire, many will rally around her.”
“I understand that, Mr. Lille.” Calavius’s answer was brittle, his tension slipping through this time. “But the Imperial Guards are putting up a vicious fight…and as I said, I only have so many troops I can trust with this duty.”
“I don’t care if you have to go in there yourself, but there can be no failure here.” Lille stared right into Calavius’s eyes. “It is bad enough you didn’t kill Commander Vennius.” He paused, noting the surprised reaction. “You didn’t know I knew, did you?”
Calavius didn’t respond, but the expression on his face gave Lille the answer he needed. “You accomplish nothing by lying to me or withholding information. This entire enterprise would have been impossible without my assistance, Commander, and you are not far enough through it that you can succeed without my further aid. I advise you to remember that. You can be Imperator in a matter of hours, and you can lead your people into a glorious war against the Confederation. In the morning, we will set the stage for the Confeds to take the blame for infiltrating the Alliance government, and for the Imperatrix to be exposed as a puppet of the Megara government. No Palatian will oppose you when that communique goes out.” Lille held his gaze, and his tone deepened. “Or you can allow all of this to collapse, and you can die a traitor’s death, as you surely will if the Imperatrix survives and maintains control.”
Calavius was angry, struggling to hold back his rage. Lille knew he was pushing hard, that no Palatian, not even one as power hungry and enmeshed in Sector Nine’s schemes as Calavius, actually liked or trusted Union operatives like himself. But things had gone well past the point of no return, and Lille knew his ally’s chances were still heavily dependent on his help.
“I will take the palace…and kill the Imperatrix. Even if I have to blast it to dust.”
“Good. Do what you must, Commander…and tomorrow we will rally the entire Alliance behind its new Imperator. You will lead your people to power and glory beyond anything they ever imagined.” Lille was frowning inside. He’d always hated giving such inspirational speeches, especially to men like Calavius. But he’d known enough fools to realize such displays almost always worked. It disgusted him how the vast majority of people were so easily manipulated. Greed, lust, and ego were the tools of his trade…along with fear, of course. Fear was his favorite, without question, but he used what the job required.
He could see that Calavius’s determination was renewed. “Remain here, Mr. Lille. I am going to direct the final assault. In thirty minutes, I will be the master of the palace, or what is left of it.”
He glared at Lille with glittering eyes. “And the Imperatrix will be dead.”
Lille just nodded. He’d done all he could. Now he would have to wait, and see if his chosen tool was capable enough to do what had to be done.
“And then I will find Tarkus Vennius, and whoever helped him escape…and I will paint the streets with their blood.”
* * *
“Move! Odds to the right, evens to the left.” Vennius stood at the top of the stairs, waving his arms, urging his soldiers forward. Now that they were out of the tunnels and inside from the dark, rocky path, he could get most of his people in view. He didn’t like what he saw. He knew he’d lost a good number of soldiers in the fighting at the admiralty and the desperate race to get to the palace. But now, he guessed he had no more than two hundred left, and perhaps fewer. That meant more than half the cohort was down…and he didn’t kid himself. In the current situation, down meant dead. He had no illusions about what the traitors would do to any of his soldiers who fell into their hands.
He knew the palace layout well. The great staircase was one of two, a concession to symmetry, but by far the less utilized of the pair. The rear entrances to the palace saw little use, since they led only to the rocky paths hugging the ocean cliffs.
The paths Calavius neglected to garrison…as I suspected…
Vennius didn’t like splitting up his soldiers, but he knew it was the right move now, especially since the sounds in the distance confirmed his fear that the enemy was in the palace already. He had no idea where the attackers were, or how far they had penetrated, and the two hallways arced around and reconnected after perhaps seventy meters. Ideally, he’d have set up a defensive position at the top of the stairs and sent out scouts, but there simply wasn’t time. This wasn’t about defending the palace or retaking it. He was here to save the Imperatrix, and nothing else mattered. He could lead a tactically brilliant operation…but if he got there after some rebel soldier but a bullet in her head, it was all for nothing.
“Let’s go…move. We haven’t got time to waste. The Imperatrix is depending on us. We have to save her. We have to save our leader.”
Vennius had been quite the aggressive field commander back in his day, but it had been many years since he’d led troops directly into battle. He was surprised how easily it came back, the recollections of tactical command, the ready words to rally the soldiers, even the muscle memory of combat maneuvers. He’d felt like an old man for the past three years, weighed down by grief and a feeling of uselessness. But now there was an energy coursing through his body, one he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. One that drove him on, despite despair and fear and blistering rage at a man he’d called his friend. A man he was now determined to kill.
He watched as the last of the soldiers moved forward, his disordered column dividing somewhat sloppily into two sections. Aurelius and Lentius stood next to him. Lentius had his rifle angled up, the butt resting on his hip. He looked the essence of the Palatian warrior, with just the slightest hint of guilt in his eyes. The colonel had saved Vennius’s life, and his actions had been crucial to whatever chance remained to defeat the coup, but Vennius knew the officer was torturing himself, expecting—almost wanting—some sort of punishment for disobeying orders.
Aurelius stood next to Lentius, holding a pistol in his good hand, with rather less apparent confidence than Lentius displayed. Aurelius had combat experience, but only the minimum amount Vennius had felt was necessary to justify his grant of Citizenship to his longtime aide. It went against the spirit of Palatian culture to seek to limit exposure to battle, but Aurelius was a genius with numbers, incredibly valuable in his role on Vennius’s staff. It was a bit unorthodox, but Vennius had been confident enough that no one would dare challenge him…and no one had.
Aurelius didn’t look good, though. Limited battle experience or no, he’d fought like a caged beast in the Admiralty, helping Lentius and his people get through the rebels
in time to reach Vennius…and he’d taken a nasty shot to the arm in the process. One side of his shirt was soaked with blood, and his face was pale, slick with sweat. He’d kept up in the tunnels and on the path—somehow—but Vennius knew his aide was close to his limit.
“Drusus, go with the group on the left. I’ll take the group on the right. Be as cautious as you can, but remember, time is crucial. We’ll meet in the center hallway, right below the stairway to the Imperatrix’s apartments.”
“Yes, sir.” Lentius turned and raced up the stairs after his troopers.
“Stay with me, Aurelius.” Vennius reached out, extending a hand. “Come, old friend, hold on to me. We’ll get through this together.” He was definitely worried about Aurelius. Despite the differences in their stations, he considered the aide a friend. But more importantly right now, if he managed to get the Imperatrix out of here, Aurelius’s analytical abilities would be invaluable in developing a strategy to defeat—to survive—the coup.
“I’m okay, Commander. Don’t let me slow you down.”
“Don’t be foolish, Aurelius.”
Aurelius looked up at him. “Sir…there’s no time. The Imperatrix…”
Vennius swore under his breath. He knew Aurelius was right. He had to leave his friend. “You are to follow, and catch up…do you hear me? That’s an order, Aurelius. I know you’re hurt, I know you’re tired. But I don’t care. You have to catch up. You have to.”
“I will, sir.” The aide coughed and struggled for a few seconds to catch his breath. “I’m hurt, Commander…but I’m tougher than you think. I’ll be right behind you.”
Vennius hesitated, but for just an instant. He hated leaving a comrade behind, but he knew where his duty led him. “Keep moving, Aurelius. Don’t you give up. That’s an order.” He turned and ran down the hallway, chasing after the soldiers. It only took a moment to catch the makeshift column, but it was harder to push his way through the crowd, toward the front. Where he belonged.
He heard the sounds of gunfire up ahead, and as he made his way to the lead position, he saw bodies, three Imperial Guards…no, four. And seven other soldiers. Traitors.
He felt a surge of anger, and a slight bit of satisfaction that the guards had given better than they’d gotten. Seven dead traitors…the sight gave him a perverse pleasure. Shock at the coup was giving way…to cold rage.
“Let’s go,” he shouted. As much as he liked the idea of his enemies being killed, there wasn’t much doubt the Imperial Guards had been driven back, toward the stairway leading to the Imperatrix’s quarters. The guards had fought well, defended the palace for longer than he’d had a right to hope for. But the fight was almost over.
He moved forward quickly, almost recklessly. They had to get there on time. They had to.
He saw something up ahead, and his arms moved, almost on their own, bringing the rifle to bear and firing, even as several of the troopers behind him did the same. He saw an enemy soldier fall, and the shadows of another dropping around the corner and out of direct sight. Then one of his own fell as a burst of return fire ripped down the hallway.
He dropped to one knee and pressed against the wall for cover, firing the entire time, the heavy rounds tearing apart the fine paneling on the walls.
Damn…we don’t have time for a protracted firefight…
“All right, on three we’re going to rush the corridor. We can’t get pinned down here. We’ve got to get to the Imperatrix…whatever the cost.”
“One…”
“Sir, please stay back…we’ll…”
He knew the woman who had spoken. She was a good officer, and loyal. They all were. Vennius would have vouched for every soldier in his legion. They wanted to protect him, convince him to stay behind. But they would obey his orders. “We’re all going, Lieutenant. That’s final. Two.”
“Three.” He lunged forward, racing down the corridor so quickly he almost lost his balance. He was shooting as he came on, spraying the enemy position with fire, blasting bits of the wall to dust. His people were all behind him, a surging, shouting mass of warriors, committed to a charge they knew could end only in victory…or death. There would be no retreat. There could be none.
There were nearly a hundred of them, and they came on with an unmatchable fury. One fell, then another, but still they pushed on. A third dropped. A fourth…and then they were there. They spun around the corner, their rifles spitting death on the dozen troopers who’d been taking cover there. Half of the enemy were down in a second or two, and most of the others right after. The last two went down in hand to hand matchups, their midsections sliced open by the Vennius’s heavy combat knives.
Vennius could feel a wet warmth on his face from the splattered blood of his enemies. In energized him, filled him with a primal fury, one that only increased in intensity as he heard the sounds of fighting ahead. A moment later he saw Lentius and his troopers rushing down from the far hall.
“Up the stairs, soldiers. Now. Save the Imperatrix. Save the Alliance. And no mercy…no mercy to traitors.”
Vennius snapped out the spent clip in his rifle as he shouted his battle cries, and he pulled a new on from his bandolier and rammed it in place.
“No mercy to traitors,” he shouted as he raced up the stairs, half a step ahead of his soldiers. And behind him he heard the chants of, “Vennius Legion forever!”
Chapter Twelve
The Promenade
Spacer’s District
Port Royal City, Planet Dannith, Ventica III
309 AC
Lafarge walked down the covered street, past the taverns and various sleazy establishments that lined the main avenue of Port Royal City’s infamous Spacer’s District. Most cities with spaceports had some version or another of the neighborhood, and a similar array of businesses catering to the needs and wants—legal and otherwise—of transient spacers. But Port Royal City was the capital of Dannith, and Dannith lay on the edge of the Confederation, at the edge of the Badlands. Its spacers were even more disreputable than most, rogues and pirates—or near pirates—who scavenged the dead worlds across the border for anything they could sell.
That haunted area of space extended out, far beyond the deepest any explorer’s ship had dared to venture in at least three centuries. There was profit to be had scavenging bits and pieces of ancient technology, and legend had it, even fortunes to be made upon occasion. There were stories of chunks of ancient electronics and sections of highly advanced equipment that had earned their discoverers millions. All of that had happened on the black market, of course, outside the notice of the authorities that claimed possession of any old tech found in the ruins of the dead empire.
Lafarge, of course, knew more than any of the denizens of these dimly-lit bars and crooked gambling halls. She had seen not just scraps of old tech, but a great battleship, intact…one that had been constructed for a single purpose. To destroy worlds. She wasn’t enough of a physicist to calculate whether the massive antimatter-powered weapons of that vessel could have actually blasted a planet to rubble, or if it was simply capable of destroying all life inhabiting it. Either result could adequately support the decoded designation, “planet-killer.” But the ancient wonder was gone now, blasted to sub-atomic particles by the annihilation of an amount of antimatter so vast, it defied the imagination.
She walked into a bar, the fourth…no, the fifth one so far today. She’d come down from the orbital station, looking for someone. Lex Righter was her engineer, and her friend. He’d played a key role in the action out at Chrysallis, but from what she’d heard, it may have been too much for him. He was an intelligent man, one of enormous capability. His engineering skills could have opened doors for him, led him to a comfortable life somewhere far from the rough and tumble frontier of the Badlands. Indeed, they had, until he lost it all. He had his weaknesses as well as strengths, and drinking was one of them.
Righter was strong, in some ways. Lafarge had never seen him lose his cool in a despera
te situation, but he was also troubled. He struggled when he wasn’t busy, his demons emerging when he had nothing but empty time. His tendency to seek solace in a bottle during such periods had cost him everything—career, family, position. Lafarge had found him a broken man years earlier, and she liked to think the home she’d made for him had saved his life. As his incredible skills in the engine room had saved the entire crew’s more than once.
All her people had returned, ready to take their places on Pegasus and set out on their next expedition. All except Righter. Vig Merrick had told her Righter had never left Dannith, and she knew that significantly narrowed down the number of places she was likely to find him. She’d searched five already, but that left more than a dozen.
It never ceased to amaze her how spacers, especially those in places like the Badlands, raced back the instant they made a score…and proceeded to spend everything they’d earned as quickly as possible. She was keenly aware of the risks she and her people took, and every credit she’d managed to make had gone into improvements to her ship…or one of the half dozen hiding places where she kept her hard earned, and occasionally ill-gotten, gains.
She’d insisted on paying her way on Oleyus, of course, an unusual extravagance, especially when Barron was more than willing to cover it all, but that had been a matter of pride. She knew Barron was vastly wealthy, but she’d shut him down every time he’d tried to foot the bill. She knew he’d meant well, but she wasn’t about to yield her position as an equal in their…relationship…whatever that was. Andi Lafarge had spent her life in the pursuit of wealth, but there were ways she was willing attain that and ways she wasn’t. And she’d be damned if she would be some wealthy man’s plaything, even if that man was Tyler Barron. No, no way. Hell, Tyler Barron was her plaything…at least that was the way she looked at it. And she’d spend her last credit before she would see it any other way.
She cursed herself for thinking of Barron again. They had said their goodbyes, but after her encounter with Admiral Striker, she found herself on edge, concerned about what had brought the navy’s commander to Dannith. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that he’d come to give Barron orders, that Dauntless was being sent off on another dangerous mission. She’d tried to ignore those concerns, willed herself to focus on her own business, but finally she’d given in and tried to contact Barron…only to discover that Dauntless had left its docking that morning.
