The Hope Island Chronicles Boxed Set

by PJ Strebor

  “Thank you for a very complete report, Admiral Braun,” Roth said. “Now to move on. Admiral Kneymeyer, I trust the situation on the western front has improved since our last meeting.”

  The rest of the meeting went as all meetings went: some good news and some bad news; those who were obviously competent, like Braun, and others who followed the imperative of high-echelon maneuvering, by first covering their asses before devoting time to actually getting on with the job. Draeger hoped Braun would learn how to deal with this sort of dangerous verbal warfare much better in the future. He was a good line officer, and it would be a pity to lose him because he could not adjust to how the political game worked.

  Two hours later, with all the reports and excuses having been tabled, the meeting broke up. Only the three most powerful men in the empire remained at the table. More than anyone else, these three men had steered the empire from the great abyss and begun its rebirth, from a shattered society into the most powerful entity in northern Tunguska.

  A waiter served coffee before being dismissed. The emperor took a sip of the fresh, hot brew.

  “Where the devil did you get Athenian coffee?”

  Viceroy Roth nodded toward Draeger, who shrugged. “I wouldn’t be much of an intelligence officer if I couldn’t track down some decent coffee for my emperor.”

  “Should we ask how you acquired Kastorian coffee?” Roth asked. The steely glint had fled from his eyes, which now sparkled with mischief.

  “No,” Draeger said.

  The three men exchanged relaxed smiles rarely seen outside of their own company.

  “I like that young admiral,” Thaddeus said. “Braun, isn’t it?” The other men nodded. “It’s refreshing to see such spirit and confidence.” Thaddeus sat for several seconds, pondering. “We used to have that sort of passion and drive, remember? What happened to those days?”

  “The reformation has come at a price to all of us, Thaddeus,” Roth said.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right, Alder, but it’s a pity. Perhaps one day…”

  “Thaddeus, one day when Tunguska is whole and under the control of one voice, then everything will be possible.” Draeger had been drumming the same party line into the emperor’s head for over twenty years, and still he could sense doubt in the young leader.

  “One day,” Thaddeus said, with a wistful sigh. He shook his head and returned to business. “I read a report yesterday that I found to be a little disconcerting. Apparently the rumor mill suspects that some factions within the League of Allied Worlds are lobbying to have an amendment to the quarantine threat level. It’s restricted to military vessels so they can pursue raiders across the frontier. What’s your assessment, Oscar?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, Thad. There are feelers out, mainly from Athens, but it’s not getting much traction.”

  “So, we have nothing to concern ourselves with?” Roth asked.

  Oscar sniffed. “If they ever get serious about it, I’ll do what I did last time.”

  “Another Delos, Oscar?” Thaddeus looked appalled.

  “Infecting Delos was a means to an end, Thad. The League is weak. They’ll do anything to avoid the possibility of engaging in another conflict that could introduce the plague to their worlds.”

  “All that death,” Thaddeus said.

  “Better them than us.” When will this boy toughen up?

  “Let’s move on, shall we?” Roth said. “Oscar, do you think your cloak and dagger boys can help with the Talgarno situation?”

  “Clearly, Alder, forty percent casualties is unacceptable. So I shall see what we can do.”

  “You’ve performed miracles in the past, Oscar, but I would not be volunteering to infiltrate a barbaric lot like the Talgarnos. They have proven so far to have a decidedly poor sense of humor. A man would have to be crazy to get within reach of them.” He snorted. “I guess crazy is what you and your department do best.”

  “Thank you, Alder. As a matter of fact, I believe I have just the person for such a lunatic assignment.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Date: 15th December, 321 ASC.

  Position: Pruessen Empire. Imperial Pruessen Navy base, Virtus.

  Status: Mission selection.

  The Virtus naval base constituted the most powerful single military force in the Pruessen Empire. The entire moon was solely allocated to the manufacture of ships and weapons and the protection of the Pruessen home systems. An enormous construct with but one purpose in mind: war. Driven by calculated Pruessen pragmatism, the base had grown into an impregnable colossus standing as the cornerstone of Pruessen expansionism.

  A modest portion of the massive facility had been allocated to the Imperial Pruessen Navy Intelligence Division. A relatively small section of the division had been set aside for the exclusive and ultra–top secret Special Services. This was Oscar Draeger’s empire, and with it came power beyond measure. No one told Draeger what to do or how to do it. Some had tried sticking their curious beaks into Special Services covert business and had paid a disproportionately high price for their inquisitive nature. The long years of harsh examples had established Draeger’s roost as one not to be trifled with.

  Throughout the many years of establishing himself at the pinnacle of imperial hierarchy, few had been bold enough or stupid enough to question his time-proven unorthodoxy. None knew of his real purpose. For Oscar Draeger had stood before gods. His diligent commitment to the Family had not gone unnoticed by those he served.

  Draeger had been the first of his generation to venture from the home world of the Family. Many years had passed since he had been trained for his role, for his destiny to unfold and the fruits of his labors to ripen. Thanks to the anti-ageing treatment the Family had provided to Pruessen, he would live to see the day when the Family would once again venture from their home to take their rightful place in control of the Tunguska Fault.

  However, today’s task fell far short of such a grandiose future. The desktop comm buzzed.

  “Yes.”

  “Commodore, your fifteen-thirty appointment is here.”

  “Send him in.”

  When the young man stepped through the hatch, Draeger could see little difference in his outward appearance. The eyes of a born exponent of mayhem were encased in a deceptively boyish face. A robust young man of average build and height, who any Pruessen mother would be well pleased to introduce to their daughters. His record spoke of a totally different character.

  The young associate had done remarkably well over the years, and Oscar could see within him the seeds of greatness. If he could learn to control his passion and rage, he might prove to be one of the most outstanding prospects to come along in many a year. In some ways, he reminded Draeger of a younger version of himself. Still, a lingering doubt remained. Within this lethal young man’s mind dwelt a dark place which had resisted years of purging and years more of brutal training. Even a black-level advocate of his caliber could not enter his dark place. That created uncertainty, and uncertainty bred doubt. So for the time being, Draeger would continue to use him as he did all other associates and advocates within his dominion.

  The man snapped to attention before the wide, polished desk.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Saxon reporting to the commodore as ordered.”

  “No need for that, Orson,” Draeger said. “No one in their right mind would attempt to bug this office. And if they tried, I would know and they would be dead.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  There it was, lingering under the surface. The rage and resentment, the questioning mind which should have been purged from him years ago. Yes, he could be doing my job in a few decades’ time. If I don’t have to destroy him.

  “Your last mission went well, I take it?”

  “Smuggling kesium into Francorum space is hardly a mission, Sir. But yes, the operation went without a hitch.”

  “That’s always good to hear,” Draeger said, with an easy
smile. Standing, he extended his hand. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.”

  Again, the associate’s minuscule delay. Draeger could sense him steeling himself to resist. Their hands embraced and Orson tried to fight the invasion. Draeger slapped aside his pathetic attempts to keep him out. Orson fought him until the veins protruded from his temples and sweat dotted his face. Draeger had all he needed from him for the moment and broke contact. When their hands unclasped, Orson gasped in relief.

  “You should know better than to try and keep anything from me, Orson. Haven’t I taught you anything over the last year?” Draeger resumed his seat and waved the younger man to a chair.

  Orson slumped into the seat, wiped sweat from his face and cleared his throat. “I have learned much under your guidance, Sir, for which I am obliged.”

  “Still, you feel within yourself a greater purpose, do you not?”

  “I would always wish to do more than I have for the Family, Sir.”

  “Blind naked ambition is what it’s called.”

  “My only ambition is to serve.”

  “Still, you believe that your recent activities are beneath you, do you not?”

  “Commander Bannister believed I had greater potential.”

  “Bannister is dead, and you know how.”

  There again, the rage bubbling just under the surface.

  “I carried out my mission, Sir. A mission that should never have been attempted with the piss-poor resources we were allocated, Sir. A mission I accomplished, Sir, on the promise of advocacy status, upon its completion. Then to find myself sent back to smuggling drugs into the south? So yes, Sir, I do believe I could be of greater service to those we serve — if, Sir, I was given the opportunity.”

  “Your mission was an unmitigated failure, Lieutenant.”

  Once again, Orson’s control clicked into place. Draeger found his willpower to be extraordinary. He understands I am trying to catch him out, and adjusts in a heartbeat.

  Orson reclined his chair, a leisurely smile concealing his inner agitation.

  “Unmitigated failure, Commodore?” Orson smirked. “That’s harsh.”

  Good, very good.

  “So, young Orson, you think you’re ready to take on greater responsibilities, do you?”

  “I live to serve.”

  “To the death?”

  “If that is the Family’s will.”

  “Well then, I have just the job for an up-and-coming associate like yourself. It will probably get you killed, but such is the price we pay for our service. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, Sir.” His smile hardened.

  Draeger wondered how long the smile would last when Orson learned what awaited him.

  CHAPTER 11

  Date: 15th December, 321 ASC.

  Position: Pruessen Empire. Imperial Pruessen Navy base, Virtus.

  Status: Initial planning begins.

  An hour later, with the basics of the forthcoming mission memorized, and carrying all the data chips on the Talgarno system that were available, Orson strode to his quarters. What an opportunity. Now he could show the Family he was worthy of consideration for a higher purpose.

  He read the Talgarno reports in detail, twice. Orson’s mind roiled with possible scenarios, and he tossed most of them aside. However, the formation of a working plan percolated deep within his mind, shards of ideas coalescing slowly into what would eventually become a working strategy. Orson needed an edge, a weakness he could exploit.

  The lingering memories of his last major assignment stabbed into his thoughts. The images continued to disrupt his waking and sleeping moments like unwelcome strangers: the mission to test the new energy dampening field; the insane choice of vessel and crew to do so; the sabotage and death of his white-level advocate, Commander Bannister; the butchering of Picaroon’s captain and crew by a force of vastly outnumbered Monitor Corps sailors; the spineless stupidity of the first officer and their final confrontation.

  The incident had happened over a year ago, but the words still rang in his mind as if it were yesterday.

  “This is madness,” he had said to Commander Weiss. “We are in Pruessen space. We have accomplished our mission. The technology works. And you want to wander into a monitor’s torpedo envelope for a handful of children. For God’s sake, let them go.”

  “Shut your mouth, Lieutenant Saxon,” Weiss spat. “I am captain of this ship, not you. Do you have any idea how much those children are worth?” He turned his weapon on Orson. “The Athenians won’t fire on us. Not while they think we have civilians aboard.”

  “That’s enough,” Orson said, with a steadiness to his voice he had to fake. Weiss was stupid enough to kill him and cover it up later. Considering the large number of casualties Picaroon had taken, one more would hardly rate a mention.

  “This mission comes under the direct authority of IPN Intelligence. Under that authority, I order you to come about and resume course back to Virtus.”

  “Your authority ended at the frontier. This is my ship now.”

  “I’ll see you hang for this, Weiss.”

  “That’s mutiny, Saxon.” He motioned for the two largest bridge guards to step forward. “Place this officer under arrest. Take him to the brig and lock him in.”

  While the headhunter guards escorted him to the brig, Orson considered his options. At the same time, his body tensed for attack. One thing remained certain: he had to get off this ship. His gut twisted painfully as it did in potentially dangerous situations. This was no longer the Pruessen headhunter ship Picaroon, but little more than a flying coffin.

  The route to the brig took the small party aft, past the boat bay. Orson had waited for this moment. His mind calmed and his body tensed but did not outwardly betray his intentions. As the boat bay hatch drew closer, he prepared to kill the two guards. Orson would not allow himself to die in this manner, and most certainly not on this rust-bucket excuse for a warship.

  He slowed his pace to bring the first guard within reach.

  Orson turned when the muffled thud reached his ears. The first guard fell to the deck. The second guard threw his bloodied broadsword aside. Orson’s best instincts told him to hold his attack. The guard took a step back and removed his helmet. He held his hands out from his body in a gesture of submission.

  “Weiss is going to get us killed,” Petty Officer Spicer said.

  Orson was glad he had not killed him months earlier. Spicer, a born survivalist, might prove useful to someone of Orson’s profession.

  “Can you fly?” Orson asked.

  Spicer smirked and nodded.

  Yes, sometimes even headhunter scum had their uses. The hatch to the boat bay rolled open and a wave of heated plasma hit him in the face. The escaping Athenians must have built up speed before their daring escape, leaving the boat bay flooded with exhaust emissions. The two unlikely allies forced their way into the cauldron, making certain not to touch any metallic surfaces. The unsealed landing boats smelled of burning debris and fried controls, but one boat remained sealed. Spicer used a knife to pry the hatch open. The interior felt as hot as the inside of a kiln, but the controls were undamaged.

  Orson took the right-hand seat opposite the Pruessen NCO. Time moved on. That fool Weiss would bring them under the guns of the Athenian monitor at any minute.

  “We have to go now!”

  “I need to do pre-flight or we—”

  “Spicer,” he said, grasping the other man’s shoulder, “we go now.”

  The headhunter held his gaze for a moment, then activated the giant boat bay hatches. Spicer pushed the throttles to maximum and they flew from the doomed ship. Two seconds after they exited the vessel, the buffeting struck them. Spicer fought the unwieldy craft under control, found his heading and maneuvered the LB on a rough heading toward Pruessen space. A half minute after they completed the turn, the darkness of space erupted with brilliant white light. Picaroon’s destruction would rain debr
is onto their small craft.

  “Fuck!” Spicer cut engine power, brought up the shields and took the LB through a series of insane maneuvers. His hands flew across the controls, and the blast shields covered the clear view panels. They had just snapped shut when the world went mad.

  To Orson it felt as though a thousand angry deities were pounding on the hull, trying to tear it apart in order to feed on the contents. The LB tumbled until the wave of debris subsided. With the sound of the drumming hull gone, wailing alarms filled the flight deck. Accompanying lights flashed angrily as the coldness of space seeped into the craft.

  Orson and Spicer took nearly an hour to plug the holes that had punctured the hull, but at the end they were still alive. Although the life support controls were relatively undamaged, the engines were beyond repair. Spicer rigged up a transponder that would broadcast their position, but this far out, rescue seemed unlikely.

  Sixteen days passed within their crippled little craft. Rationing of onboard supplies lasted ten days, then they began to slowly starve to death. Survival reigned as Orson’s paramount concern, and after three days without food, the beefy petty officer drew his attention. Orson had no compunction with regard to ancient superstition. Survival at all costs sat at the top of his options. On the fourteenth day, the water reclamator broke down, and he struck Spicer’s name from the menu. Without water, they would both be dead within seventy-two hours. On the fifteenth day, the craft’s environmental controls began to malfunction and they lost heating. By the sixteenth day, the combined effects of starvation, dehydration and hypothermia had rendered them unconscious. Neither man responded when their unconscious bodies were removed from the wrecked landing boat.