Authors: Christopher Nuttall
The young man tapped a switch, activating the holographic display. “I have prepared a full infodump for you,” he began, “but I will touch on the principal matters now. The Fairfax Cluster is caught between several competing strands of thought, at least two of which pose a danger to the integrity of the Federation. It is the prediction of my staff that we will see a crisis within the next year – two at the most.”
Glen scowled. Politically-driven briefings had been a headache for his brothers, but the military had largely avoided them – or so he’d thought. Now, of course, the simplicity of the war had been replaced by the chaos the war had left in its wake. And Intelligence Officers could be relied upon to spin the briefing to ensure that their superiors heard what they wanted to hear – or what their subordinates wanted them to hear. It wasn't always the same thing.
“To summarise, the Fairfax Cluster is still building up its military at an astonishing rate,” Rogers continued. “Despite the formal end of the war, they continue to spend a sizable percentage of their combined GPP on starships, planetary defences and supporting facilities. Put in perspective, if the Federation spent a similar amount of its income on the TFN, the fleet would include millions of superdreadnaughts and fleet carriers – and
billions
of crewmen. They have also purchased a considerable number of military starships from the Federation, although such purchases have tailed off in recent years.
“This leaves us with a single worrying question. Why, exactly, are they building up their fleet?
“The analysts have different opinions. Some point to the constant menace of raiders along the edge of human-settled space and insist that the Colonial Militia intends to suppress the pirates. Others think that the strong anti-alien streak in colonial thought will manifest itself in genocide, attacks on the remaining Dragon worlds. And still others believe that the Fairfax Cluster intends to declare independence.”
Glen listened as the facts and figures washed over his head. It did sound impressive, he had to admit – and it would be even more impressive to a civilian. But then, the TFN’s total hull numbers were also impressive, until one realised that they were rarely concentrated in one place. Even the climatic battles of the war hadn't absorbed more than thirty percent of the TFN. The Colonial Militia might be a formidable force if gathered together, but it was much less dangerous if it were spread out over dozens of light years.
“I have a question,” Glen said, as Rogers paused for breath. “How many raider attacks have there been along the borderlines?”
“There have been hundreds of reported attacks, ranging from lost starships to actual raids on planetary colonies,” Rogers said. “However, relatively few of those attacks have actually been verified by TFN personnel.”
Governor Wu leaned forward. “And are these attacks a genuine threat?”
“The Fairfax Cluster could take steps to minimise them,” Rogers said, simply. “We learned very quickly that convoys were almost always effective against pirates – or even light Dragon raiding squadrons. But the Colonial Militia rarely bothers to insist that shipping be convoyed, leaving escorts a matter of chance rather than careful planning. They also don't station starships in every threatened star system, even though they could.”
Glen suspected that Rogers was deliberately minimising part of the truth. His brothers had forced a basic understanding of galactic economics into his head, including the economies of scale that were possible when large corporations handled interstellar shipping. Knight Corporation could afford to wait for a convoy, or even pay for the licences to arm their freighters. It wasn't an option for the smaller shipping companies, let alone an independent trader. They couldn't afford the penalties they would have to pay for delayed arrival, nor did they have the clout to avoid having such clauses inserted into their contracts.
Nor
could
the TFN verify the attacks. As far as Glen knew,
Dauntless
would be the first TFN ship to visit the region for several years. Even during the final offensive, most of the fighting in the sector had been carried out by the Colonial Militia. The TFN hadn't wanted to divert starships when invading and occupying Sphere-Prime might have ended the war. From their point of view, the campaign had been an unnecessary diversion.
But it might be months before anyone even knew that there had been an attack
, he thought, grimly. Communications along the edge of explored space were always poor.
The entire colony might be dead and no one would notice until a ship visited on a routine mission.
He scowled at the thought. The Fairfax Cluster hadn't had an FTL network until the Federation had loaned them the relay stations, after the war. But it had provided yet another source of friction between the Federation and the Colonials. The Federation produced much of the entertainment, news broadcasts and everything else on the network – and charged a stiff fee for anyone who wanted to use it. In turn, the colonials preferred to rely on starships ... and besides, the network didn't reach everywhere. Most of the border had no relay stations at all.
“So they prefer to leave the border undefended rather than take steps to deal with the situation.” Governor Wu said, with heavy satisfaction. “That is one matter I will deal with at once.”
“You would need to call for escorts from the TFN,” Glen pointed out, before he could stop himself. He had a feeling that the Colonial Militia wouldn't be capable of meeting the Governor’s demands, no matter what it
wanted
to do. “It would certainly endear the Federation to them if we stopped the raider attacks.”
“They have more than enough starships to handle a basic convoy system,” Rogers said.
He
clearly knew which side of the case to present. “All they need is a push.”
Glen sighed, inwardly. At the very least, shipping times within the cluster would become much longer, doing untold economic damage. At worst, the colonials would see it as another sign of meddling by people who knew nothing of what was actually going on. And they would be right.
“There are other issues,” Rogers continued. “For example, alien refugee camps have been largely starved of resources since the end of the war. The colonies have the responsibility for feeding the aliens, but they have been slacking off ...”
“I have brought supplies for the camps,” Governor Wu interrupted. “It will make for a PR opportunity, if nothing else.”
Glen stared at her.
That
was what was in the freighters? Supplies for the aliens?
But the Governor was right. It
would
go down well on Earth. Humans supporting aliens who couldn't look after themselves; aliens who had already been liberated from the Dragons ... aliens who had been at the mercy of cruel humans unwilling to look past the hatreds of the war. And the colonies would be furious. Six freighters worth of food and supplies, brought all the way from Earth ... the costs would have been staggering, all for a PR stunt. It wouldn't just be the Fairfax Cluster that would be up in arms.
Sighing inwardly, he settled back in his chair, mentally compiling his report to Admiral Patterson – and his brothers. The situation in the Cluster was quite bad enough without pouring fuel on the fire. Surely, there had to be something they could do ...
Susan MacDonald looked out over the refugee camp and knew despair.
It had only been intended as a temporary settlement. The Dragons – and the aliens they had used as slaves – were not welcome on many worlds in the Fairfax Cluster. Moving them to Tyson’s Rest had seemed a solution to the problem of just what to do with the non-human refugees, at least until shipping could be arranged to their homeworlds. But the shipping had been delayed and the camp had grown and grown until it held upwards of four hundred thousand aliens, all crammed far too closely together.
The local authorities had given the camp the bare minimum. A handful of prefabricated buildings, a couple of water and food processors ... and very little else. There were refugees suffering from medical conditions that could be treated easily, if the supplies had been made available ... but they were not. Every time Susan spoke to the local authorities, she was reminded that the planet’s human population didn't want the aliens anywhere near their territory. There were too many starving or suffering humans for anything to be spared for the aliens.
She scowled as she caught sight of a handful of aliens making their slow way to the food tables. The Mice – as humans had come to call them – were largely harmless, barely able to lift a finger in their own defence. Unsurprisingly, the Dragons had simply overwhelmed them and then put the small aliens to work as slaves. They’d been victims, just as much as the humans who had also been enslaved, but most of the human race didn't care to recognise it. And their homeworld was a polluted cinder. They literally had nowhere to go.
Shaking her head, she started to walk back to her tent. There, she could write yet another missive to the Refugee Commission, although she had a sneaking suspicion that it would be useless. The Fairfax Cluster didn't give a shit about the alien refugees and the Federation had too much else to worry about in the aftermath of the war. Even the Liberal-Progressives understood that it would be electoral suicide to care too much about aliens, even though the Mice had been slaves until the Federation had liberated them. There would be little additional help forthcoming, no matter what she said ...
She ran through the calculations as she walked. No matter what she did, they would have to cut rations again by the end of the week. There just weren’t enough supplies for everyone in the refugee camp. And they were running short of everything else too, from firewood to bedding. The local authorities had even had the nerve to file an environmental impact statement and demand compensation from the Refugee Commission. If it wasn't the only environmental impact statement filed in the entire cluster, Susan would eat her hat.
Her tent was the only place in the camp she could be assured of some privacy – and only then when the rest of her staff were absent. She sagged the moment she closed the flap behind her, fighting down a tidal wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm her. Her staff, such as they were, were just as badly affected. She’d seen half of them leave, unable to bear it any longer. And the remainder were cracking too.
Damn them
, she thought, as she sat down at the desk.
Damn them all
.
***
Lieutenant Tobias Jackson sat in his command chair, such as it was, and studied the near-orbit display. There was little in orbit, apart from a handful of satellites and automated weapons platforms intended to deter pirates. Tyson’s Rest wasn’t an industrial powerhouse and was unlikely to become one, not after the Dragons had savaged the original settlers and forced them to take in refugees just to ensure that their planet remained viable. It would be decades before the planet recovered from the war.
The single manned orbital weapons platform was tiny, compared to the giant battlestations that guarded Earth or the other Core Worlds. Tobias had no illusions about the relative importance of Tyson’s Rest or the reason he’d been assigned to the insignificant world. The Colonial Militia was not a great believer in spit and polish, but it did have its standards and Tobias had offended against them. If he hadn't had an excellent combat record, he suspected that he would have been dismissed rather than exiled. But Tyson’s Rest wasn't
that
bad a place to defend, he had to admit. And the handful of local-born crewmen were shaping up nicely ...
He leaned forward as an alarm shrilled. Tyson’s Rest saw almost no traffic, apart from a handful of freighters and a warship or two every month. The planet had little to offer the Fairfax Cluster, let alone the rest of the galaxy. Hell, its farms hadn’t recovered from the occupation or the damage the Dragons had inflicted before they abandoned the world. But now ... nine portals opened in quick succession, disgorging a handful of warships. Their IFFs read out as Colonial Militia, but Tobias felt a thrill of alarm as he studied their deployment. It wasn't like the Militia to fly in such a tight formation ...
“Sound the alert,” he ordered. Maybe he was overreacting, but his senses were telling him that something was badly wrong. “Tell the planet to raise the alarm ...”
Red lights lit up on his console as the enemy targeting sensors came online, sweeping through space and locking onto the orbital weapons platforms. Tobias swore out loud, then hit the emergency alert, flash-waking his defences. He’d kept everything stepped down to ensure that the equipment’s lifespan was prolonged as much as possible, but right now that was starting to look like a mistake. His targeting sensors came to life, too late. The newcomers were already opening fire, unleashing a spread of missiles towards the automated platform.