Authors: Christopher Nuttall
“We’re approaching the exit,” Helena said, breaking into Glen’s thoughts. He disengaged from the sensors and looked over at her. “We’re out in three ... two ... one ...”
Glen felt a moment of pure relief as they emerged on the far side of the Great Wall. A normal hyperspace storm could be evaded, but if the Bottleneck ever shifted or closed entirely there would be no hope for anyone who happened to be inside the passageway at the time. The Federation monitored the Great Wall closely, hoping to predict any shifts in its position, yet despite years of research the energy fluctuations still seemed to be largely random. There was something about the Great Wall that made it far less predictable than the more regular hyperspace storms.
Perhaps they’re just fiddling with their equipment
, Glen thought, wryly. It wasn't as if anyone would ever know the truth. The stars trapped inside the Great Wall were inaccessible, unless starships travelled through normal space to reach them. At best, the trip would take thirty years ... and the Federation would probably refuse to provide funding. The damage left behind by the war absorbed almost all of its resources.
“Good,” he said, out loud. Threading the Bottleneck wasn't difficult, but it was unnerving. “Set course for Fairfax, best possible speed.”
“Aye, sir,” Helena said.
“The convoy has made transit, sir,” Danielle reported. “They’re still shadowing us.”
“Tell them to try to keep up,” Glen ordered. Ever since he’d discovered what the Governor had brought with her, he’d been tempted to leave them behind. Her political posturing was only going to make matters worse in the Fairfax Cluster. “And send an update to Fairfax with our current ETA.”
He settled back in his command chair and started to review files. Rogers might have given a slanted view of events, but he’d also sent along copies of the original data and reports from Federation officials within the Cluster. Glen knew better than to take them completely for granted, yet he had enough experience – he hoped – to separate the truth from the misunderstandings – or lies. The situation in the Cluster was definitely explosive.
“Captain,” Cooke said, “I think we’ve picked up a shadow.”
Glen felt his eyes narrow. Apart from the pirate ship – if it had been a pirate ship – the small convoy had been undisturbed until it had passed through the Bottleneck. It was a relief, he told himself; exterminating pirates was always worthwhile, but the important part of the mission was reaching Fairfax. But now ...
“Show me,” he ordered.
He scowled as he examined the live feed from the sensors. It was frustratingly hard to tell if they were looking at something
real
, or a ghost thrown up by hyperspace, but he could understand why Cooke felt it was worth noting. The contact was reassuringly solid, pacing them; it wasn't jumping around like most sensor ghosts. But it was also keeping its distance, watching
Dauntless
rather than moving to intercept.
“I see,” he said, finally. “When did they pick us up?”
“Just after we came out of the Bottleneck, I think,” Cooke said. He reviewed the sensor records hastily. “We first picked up hints that we weren't alone here”- he tapped the screen – “and here.”
Glen considered it, briefly. Pirates would probably not have tailed the convoy after realising that it was escorted by a heavy cruiser. Unless, of course, they were feeling very brave or suicidal. And that meant that their shadowy escort was probably a Colonial Militia starship, keeping an eye on the Federation Navy visitor. Glen wasn't too surprised, not after reading some of the reports about ... disagreements between the Federation’s officials and the locals. They had to wonder just why
Dauntless
had been dispatched to the Cluster in the first place ...
“Keep one eye on her,” he ordered. If they’d been completely alone, without the convoy, he would have tried to loop around and get a close look at their shadow, but he couldn't play games while he had the convoy to protect. “Alert me at once if she gets closer, or seems to be shifting into an attack position.”
He studied the display for a long moment. The enemy helmsman – if it was an enemy ship – was very capable.
Dauntless
would have trouble evading his sensor lock, at least as long as she stayed with the convoy. There were ways to make it harder for the enemy to keep close to
Dauntless
, but they’d be distractions at best. The enemy ship’s current position would allow them to observe any course changes unless they abandoned the convoy.
Cooke gave him a surprised look, but said nothing. Glen understood; few tactical officers would be comfortable knowing that an enemy ship had a lock on their location, even if they weren't in weapons range. But there was no way to evade ... and besides, they weren't trying to hide. Let the unknown ship tail them all the way to Fairfax. It wouldn't do any harm.
“It isn't as if they don’t know where we are going,” he said, mildly. “Unless she turns hostile, we can't do anything in any case.”
He scowled as he cancelled the sensor display. The Rules of Engagement weren’t clear on just how much latitude he could allow another human starship before either warning them off or opening fire. During the war, the various planetary militias had been allies ... and even independent mercenaries had rarely served the Dragons. But now ... the ROE were terrifyingly vague. Whatever he did, no matter what he thought at the time, might earn him a court martial.
Civilians
, he thought, crossly.
They always assume that there is time for mature reflection
.
But they might have had a point, he conceded. There was no shortage of interstellar war movies where the humans mistake a friendly alien gesture for something hostile and opened fire, sparking a devastating war. And yet ... now, after the war, there was no doubt that the Dragons had opened fire on the first human starship they’d encountered, intent on taking her intact and learning what they could about their new foe. If humanity had reacted vigorously to that, perhaps the entire war could have been averted.
His shift came to an end. He passed the bridge to the next officer, then stepped into his office and sat down at the desk. His terminal reported that there were four messages from the Governor, all requesting that he visit her at his earliest convenience. The messages would have been a great deal less polite, Glen suspected, if they had been addressed to someone without powerful political connections. He pushed the messages aside, then checked the rest of his inbox. There were a dozen reports from various departments – all part of the XO’s sphere of responsibility, but copied to him – which he skimmed through briefly and then set aside. Sandy could handle them; if there were problems she couldn't handle,
then
they would be brought to his attention.
Shaking his head, he stood and walked out of the cabin, heading down the corridor to the Governor’s suite. Her two guards stood outside, as if they expected her to be attacked at any moment; their mere presence was an insult to the Navy. Normally, Marines would handle any onboard security duties. Glen waited impatiently for them to scan his body, then allow him entry into the compartment. The scent of mood-altering perfume struck his nostrils as he stepped inside.
“Captain,” the Governor said. She waved him to a chair; he sat down, carefully. “I have been reading the reports from Fairfax.”
Glen nodded, keeping his real thoughts off his face. Was she reading the raw data or carefully-massaged summaries written by her subordinates? He’d learned from Theodore, a long time before he'd joined the Navy, just how easy it was for someone in a low-ranking position to manipulate the boss, just by managing the information the boss received. It had taken him too long to realise that took place in the Navy too.
“I must say that the situation is quite out of control,” the Governor continued. “I had no idea that there were so many breaches of Federation law within the Cluster. There are even breaches of the Exile Code, if you would believe it.”
“Yes, Governor,” Glen said, patiently. “But they claim that Federation law no longer applies to them.”
He scowled. The Exile Code was one of the few laws that was almost universally accepted, even in the autonomous regions of the Federation. If someone wanted to leave their homeworld, they could; their local government was obliged to buy them a starship ticket and wave them on their way. It made it easier to maintain stability, it was believed, if dissidents were allowed to leave peacefully rather than being turned into martyrs. And if a planet became
too
oppressive, it rapidly found itself becoming deserted.
The Federation Navy had very limited authority to intervene on Federation worlds, a compromise written into law when the Federation Navy had come into existence. But a planet that openly flouted the code would face intervention. It had happened several times before the Draconic War had given the Federation a whole new reason for survival.
“And Federation taxes haven't been paid,” the Governor continued, unaware of Glen’s thoughts. “There are nine worlds that took out loans from the Federation Colony Bank to establish themselves, loans that have yet to be repaid. Those monies should be reinvested in the sector.”
“But many worlds can’t repay their loans,” Glen pointed out. The planets that had been overrun by the Dragons during the opening months of the war had been devastated, if not completely depopulated. Their settlers would need centuries before they rebuilt their economies and paid off their loans. If, of course, they
could
. Some worlds had simply been abandoned, with settlement rights reverting back to the banks. “You may be asking them to pay more than they can afford.
“If they can afford to pay for a military, they can afford to pay off their loans,” the Governor said. She waved a hand around to indicate the bulkheads. “I’ve seen enough military budgets to know that starships are not
cheap
.”
“Except they may feel they need the military more than they need to pay off their loans,” Glen said, tiredly. He just wanted to unload the Governor on Fairfax and then start patrolling the sector. “If they
are
still being attacked ...”
He’d studied the raw data, carefully. Assuming that all of the reported attacks were genuine, the Fairfax Cluster was slowly bleeding to death. Even if only half of the attacks were real, the situation was still dire ... and terrifyingly reminiscent of the Cold War between First Contact with the Dragons and the outbreak of actual fighting. The Fairfax Cluster’s borders were a giant no man’s land, occupied by pirates, die-hard Dragons and God alone knew what else. And, beyond the border, there were definite suggestions that some of the Dragons were already starting to rebuild their military machine.
How quickly they forget
, he thought. Earth had never been attacked during the war; Wolf 359, where the Draconic invasion had been stopped, was light-years from humanity’s homeworld. Indeed, most of the Core Worlds had barely been touched by the war. Now that the Dragons were no longer a threat, the civilians were turning their gaze back to internal problems and forgetting that the Dragons could become a threat again very quickly, if they were given time to rebuild. The next war might be far harder to win.
It was easy to understand why the civilians forgot. The Core Worlds had populations that numbered in the billions. Earth’s population alone was greater than the population of the entire Fairfax Cluster. Losing a few thousand colonists was a drop in the ocean, no matter how horrifying it was for the colonists – or the Navy crewmen who had to clear up the mess and track down the attackers. It was easier for the civilians to embrace stereotypes than actually
think
, or admit that the Colonials had a point.
“If,” the Governor said. “I shall be commissioning an independent study of the military situation.”
Glen frowned, doubtfully. It sounded promising, but he had his doubts. In his experience, independent studies generally came to whatever conclusion suited the person who had ordered them. He'd certainly seen his brothers struggling with the natural sycophantic tendency of their corporate flunkies. Even the most independent-minded had hesitated to contradict their bosses, even in private.
“I shall be asking you to serve on the commission,” the Governor continued. “You will be the military representative.”