Authors: Christopher Nuttall
“Yes, sir,” Cooke said. In the Core Worlds, a freighter could still follow navigational beacons, but here there were none. Losing contact with their escort could, at the very least, mean a long delay before they relocated the convoy. At worst, the ship would vanish, never to be seen again. “I’ve established multiple links with each ship, including
Independence
.”
“Good thinking,” Glen said. “You have the bridge.”
“I relieve you,” Cooke said.
Glen nodded and stepped through the hatch to his office. There were even more intelligence reports to read, some of them from Sandy’s father. And she would probably need to help him understand just what was going on too. His terminal bleeped as he sat down at the desk, reporting a message from Cynthia. She wanted to talk with him as a matter of urgency.
This had damn well better be important
, Glen thought, and sent her a message inviting her to his office. Five minutes later, the hatch chimed and she strode into the compartment.
“Captain,” she said. “I managed to ID two of the starships that took part in the raid.”
Glen looked up, impressed. Most starships were unique, but it didn't take much effort to jimmy the drive fields to produce a different signature. If Cynthia was correct – and she certainly sounded confident – they were a step closer to identifying the people behind the attack. But the data they received hadn't been too clear. The colonial analysts had had to admit defeat.
“I ran it through some processing systems that we developed in the Core Worlds,” Cynthia said. “Sensor tech has always been an interest of ours and ...”
“I know,” Glen said, dryly. Human sensors had always been better than their enemies, one of the few advantages the humans had enjoyed during the opening years of the war. The Dragons had spent more effort on developing weapons instead of sensors or even defensive shields. “Get to the point.”
Cynthia flushed, then nodded. “The processors allow us to pick out more detail from starship drives than most people assume,” she said. “Specifically, we can pick out the harmonics in the inner drive sphere, which pirates rarely bother to retune. As long as they don’t know that, we can actually ID pirate ships with a high degree of certainty. In this case, there was a light cruiser and a destroyer that were definitely ex-TFN. Both of them were sold to the Colonial Militia.”
Glen stared at her. “You’re sure?”
“There are literally
trillions
of possible drive harmonic combinations,” Cynthia said. “The odds against two ships of the same class having the same combination are very low. I’ve sent a message back to Bottleneck to ask them to dig up the records to confirm my work, but I don't think they will find anything that contradicts my work.”
“I see,” Glen said. Had the attack actually been carried out by the Colonial Militia? Or a rogue group within the military? Or ...? “What happened to the ships?”
“According to the records, they were stripped of TFN-only gear a year ago and placed on the market,” Cynthia said. “A buyer representing the colonies snapped them up and had them picked up by a makeshift crew. After that, we lost track of them.”
Because the colonies were secretive with their military force
, Glen thought. The intelligence reports hadn't mentioned the captured carrier. Or, for that matter, given a precise order of battle for the colonials.
They don’t want anyone to know the exact details
.
Cynthia placed her fingertips together. “I must say that I don't like the timing, Captain,” she said. “Those ships were involved in a brutal slaughter at the exact same time the Federation appointed a new Governor to the cluster. It is quite possible that the Colonial Militia is fragmenting, just like the resistance forces on New Tandberg.”
Glen winced. New Tandberg had a higher population than most of the worlds the Dragons had occupied and a consequently larger resistance movement. When the Dragon CO had finally – and unusually – surrendered, part of the resistance movement had accepted the surrender ... and part of it had not, continuing the war until the Dragons were finally removed by the Federation Navy. Now, New Tandberg was fighting a civil war, despite the presence of Federation Marines. The planet’s unity hadn't lasted past the end of their war.
But the Colonial Militia had far more firepower than any mere resistance network. If they fragmented, the results were likely to be disastrous.
Sandy’s father didn't tell me that
, he thought. Most politicians would have hesitated to admit weakness, but his impression of General Mannerheim had been that he would have been honest, if he’d been asked.
What if the Militia
is
fragmenting?
“Send me a copy of your analysis,” he ordered, finally. “And then I’ll decide what to do with it.”
“I would advise against sharing it with Commander Mannerheim,” Cynthia said. She stood, folding her hands behind her back. “Her father is intimately involved with the Colonial Militia. If he is running a bluff and trying to convince us that the Militia is strong and united, he may react badly to knowing that his secret is out.”
Glen scowled. “And yet you have no proof of any wrongdoing ...?”
Cynthia kept her face expressionless. “There are certain people who are ...
compromised
, regardless of their own intentions,” she said. “Commander Mannerheim could be expected to have ties to her father, who just happens to be a Person of Interest to Intelligence. I would not clear her to work in anything relating to military intelligence, just because of such connections. It may not seem fair, or just, but it is far easier to prevent her from entering than repairing the damage afterwards, if she turned on us.”
“You're judging someone by their relatives,” Glen snapped.
“Yes,” Cynthia agreed. “Because relatives can bring staggering pressure to bear on someone to make them talk.”
Glen watched her leave his cabin, then rubbed his eyes as soon as the hatch closed. Nothing about the whole affair made
sense
! The Colonial Militia gained nothing from carrying out the attack, which would be sure to sour relationships with the Federation ... and yet it seemed that they had launched the attack anyway. And then the General had either lied to him or hadn’t known the truth ... if, of course, Cynthia was correct.
It definitely didn't make sense.
***
The kindest thing anyone had ever said about New Haven was that it was worthless,
Jason decided, as he stepped out of the shuttle. It was an oddity among Earth-compatible worlds; the planet was hot, had little water and was largely desert. The Dragons had loved it, naturally; they’d slaughtered the human settlers and landed a large colony mission of their own on the planet’s soil. Later, when the war turned against the Dragons, the Colonial Militia had blasted the alien settlements from orbit and moved on. No one had thought the planet worthy of resettlement.
Well, no one apart from the criminals
, Jason thought. The remains of the human settlement had been declared neutral ground by the various criminal networks that existed on the very edge of the Bottleneck Republic. There were no laws on New Haven; pirates, mercenaries and even super-criminals landed and mingled with their fellows, trading everything from stolen goods to kidnapped children. Or slaves, taken from planets still struggling to survive after the war.
This time, Mr. Ford had insisted on meeting him in a small hotel. Quite why one even existed on New Haven was an open question, but Jason had to admit that it was guaranteed private. The staff knew to keep their mouths shut, no matter what they heard discussed. A young girl with a dress that barely came down to her thighs led him up a rickety staircase and into a tiny room. Mr. Ford sat on the bed, reading a datapad.
“Thank you, Clara,” he said, as the girl bowed. “We don't require drinks.”
Jason sat down on the chair without being asked. “We don’t?”
“No,” Mr. Ford said. He produced a bottle of brandy and passed it to Jason. “Congratulations on the success of your mission.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jason said. “The untraceable funds were greatly appreciated by my crews.”
“I’m sure they were,” Mr. Ford agreed, blandly. He gave Jason a long considering look. “My superiors were so pleased that they insisted that we move ahead with the next act.”
Jason lifted an eyebrow. “Another raid on an alien camp?”
“Something a little more daring this time,” Mr. Ford said. “You are aware, no doubt, that the new Governor has arrived in the Fairfax Cluster?”
“I might have heard something to that effect,” Jason agreed. He knew better than to assume that
anything
would go according to schedule. “I take it that she arrived on time?”
“Remarkably, she did,” Mr. Ford said. “What is of considerable importance to us, Commodore, is that she brought six freighters loaded with supplies to the Cluster with her.”
“Really,” Jason said. The Federation was not renowned for being generous, certainly not to the colonies. “And what did she have in those freighters?”
“Alien supplies,” Mr. Ford said. “Enough to feed a refugee camp like the one you destroyed for several years. I believe her intention is to provide each such camp with several months worth of supplies. This has not gone down well with public opinion on this side of the Great Wall.”
His eyes narrowed. “We want those supplies destroyed,” he added. He picked up a datachip and held it out to Jason. “The Governor has insisted that the convoy and its escort head to Tyler’s Rest first, then start distributing the supplies according to this timetable. We want you to intercept it as soon as possible.”
Jason took the datachip and slotted it into his reader. “It might be tricky,” he said, thoughtfully. Where had Mr. Ford even
obtained
the timetable? “It's a minimum of five days from here to Tyler’s Rest, assuming that hyperspace allows free passage.”
“If it isn't possible, we want you to attack the next refugee camp after the convoy completes its mission and departs,” Mr. Ford said. “If the supplies cannot be destroyed on the ships, they can be destroyed on the ground.”
“Along with the aliens,” Jason said. He studied it for a long moment. “I would very much prefer to attack the camp. A single heavy cruiser would put up a vicious fight, even if outnumbered badly.”
Mr. Ford quirked his eyebrows. “And you don’t want to get your ships scratched?”
“It’s hard to collect a paycheck if you’re dead,” Jason snapped. The accusation of cowardice didn't faze him, not when he had more than proved himself over the years. “And there is a considerable risk of having one or more of my ships captured.”
“Understood,” Mr. Ford said. “My backers will support your decision, as long as the Federation is embarrassed by the outcome.”
“Good,” Jason said. “And the new ships?”
“We’re still obtaining them for you,” Mr. Ford said. “There should be a new medium cruiser or two on the way soon. Can you crew them?”
Jason made a face. Finding crew for starships wasn't too difficult, but finding crews ready to embrace what he and his men did was much harder. He’d already had to kill four of his men for not having the stomach for doing what needed to be done or for simply objecting to the treatment of the alien refugees. The real dregs of the military were generally kicked out for incompetence rather than sociopathic tendencies.
“I believe so,” he said. Whatever his inner thoughts, he would not reveal weakness to his paymaster. “Recruitment is still proceeding in earnest.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Ford said. He stood. “I believe that your crew should enjoy a day’s rest and then return to their work.”
Jason jerked a rude gesture at the man’s retreating back, then took a long swig of the brandy. The man should know better than to issue orders concerning his crewmen, although at least he hadn't done it in front of Jason’s subordinates. It was a dangerous habit, at the very least.