The Trafalgar Gambit (Ark Royal) (42 page)

Ted nodded, bitterly.

“Deputise crewmen, if necessary,” he said.  They’d planned counter-boarding operations, with armed crewmen serving as first responders.  “But make sure they’re well-briefed.”

“Aye, sir,” Parnell said.  “It will be a nightmare.”

He paused.  “Can I at least wipe the codes from the system?  If they attempt to use them, Admiral, we’d know.”

“Do it,” Fitzwilliam urged.

“Please,” Ted agreed.  “And be ready for anything.”

“Aye, sir,” Parnell said.

He saluted, then left the office.

“I’m not happy about this, Admiral,” Fitzwilliam said, flatly.  “This is
my
ship.  The final word on decisions concerning her safety is mine.”

Ted glared at him, then lowered his eyes.  He
wasn't
commander of
Ark Royal
any longer, no matter how much he might miss the days when he was her master.  It was Fitzwilliam who commanded now, he knew, and Ted had stamped on his toes quite badly.  But most Admirals wouldn't have merely moved up in rank while staying on the same ship.  They would have transferred to another ship, just to break the emotional ties between them and their previous command.  Ted hadn't done that, not when
Ark Royal
was the only effective fleet carrier in human service.  He’d stayed on his former command.

“I know, Captain,” he said.  “And I am sorry.”

“There are too many things at stake here, Admiral,” Fitzwilliam added.  “I think you need to be more careful about balancing them.  That’s why you have subordinates.”

“
Yes
, Captain,” Ted snapped.

He sighed.  “See to your ship, Captain,” he ordered.  “And pray that we manage to get through the next few days alive.”

Captain Fitzwilliam turned and left.  The stress was getting to him, Ted saw, but it was getting to all of them.  Fighting the war had been much simpler, even when he’d been trying to balance competing national imperatives – and egos – during Operation Nelson.  Now, the slightest mistake could prove disastrous.

When we get home, I’ll transfer my flag
, he thought. 
Or take that desk job, if the war comes to an end.  They won’t let me command another fleet.

It wasn't a comforting thought.  He was growing too old to command a fleet, particularly without the seasoning the more conventional officers had had.  And yet he would regret returning to Earth and spending the rest of his days there.  Shaking his head, Ted returned to his paperwork – and his silent prayers.  One tiny mistake ... and all hell could break loose.

***

Years ago, Odette Roma had made one tiny, but fatal mistake.  She’d developed a gambling habit, one that had threatened to consume her life.  Her salary as a Personal Assistant in the French
Ministry of Foreign Affairs and International Development – the Diplomatic Service – hadn't been anything like enough to cover her losses.  She'd faced utter ruin when someone had arrived to offer to pay her debts, in exchange for tiny pieces of intelligence from her work. 

There had been no choice, she told herself.  If she admitted her gambling losses to her superiors, they would brand her a security risk and transfer her somewhere less prestigious, if they didn't simply fire her and make sure she was blacklisted everywhere in Europe.  But if she took the money, she would be able to cover her debts ... and she wouldn't have to give out much intelligence.  Her contact swore he worked for a corporation.  She wasn't exactly committing
treason
if she was merely helping a French corporation, was she?

But she knew better now, after five years of sending pieces of ever more sensitive information to her contact.  She wasn't working for a corporation, but a foreign power – and she was hopelessly compromised.  If the truth ever came out, she would never see the light of day again.  She’d be buried in an asteroid penal colony and carefully interrogated by the
Direction centrale du renseignement intérieur
until they knew everything she’d told her contact – and then shot her for high treason.  Odette had considered suicide and she’d considered making a clean breast of it, but she'd known it would be the end.  How could she face her family and co-workers once they knew what she'd done?

She looked down at the datapad in front of her.  Ambassador Pierre Gasconne was a fat overweight tub of lard with wandering hands – she’d been ordered to do whatever it took to ensure she was attached to the Ambassador when he departed Earth - but she had to admit he was a skilled diplomat.  France wouldn't do
too
badly out of the treaty the ambassadors had hammered out, even if it was very far from perfect.  But other powers would be far worse off.

Her instructions were clear.  If she learned anything about the planned treaty, anything at all, she was to copy it to an address on the diplomatic datanet.  She knew better than to try to trace it back to her contact.  In truth, she wasn't entirely sure who she was working for.  But there was no choice.  If she failed them, she knew, her career would be utterly destroyed. 

Carefully, she copied the data from the pad into one of the spare terminals, then transmitted it to the address she’d been given.  Moments later, the terminal automatically wiped itself blank, erasing all traces of the message.  It was a standard security precaution when travelling on an insecure starship.  Who knew who might raid her cabin when she was eating in the mess?  But it hardly mattered.  She knew the message was on its way to her contact ...

Shaking her head, she sat down at the table and started to work through the proposed treaty, line by line.  It was her job, after all.  And her contact evidently didn't mean France any harm – or so she told herself.  They could have used the intelligence she’d sent them against France quite easily, if that had been what they’d had in mind.  Instead, they’d done almost nothing as far as she could tell.  Perhaps it wasn't such a bad bargain after all.  Perhaps she was even helping France by sending her contact intelligence ...

Or perhaps she was just deluding herself.

She’d never be allowed to quit, she knew.  Her contact wouldn't let her resign or vanish into the underworld.  Resigning without his permission would be repaid by betrayal.  Her reputation would be destroyed, her life shattered and she would never see the outside world again.  No, she had no choice.  She had to do whatever they wanted her to do.

What other choice did she have?

One of the lessons of Russian history,
Peter Golovanov had been told, was that weakness invited betrayal and attack.  The Russians had looked weak in 1941 and paid the price when Hitler’s forces had stormed across the border, leaving a trail of wreckage in their wake; they’d looked weak in 1991 and had been forced to watch, helplessly, as Western political unions moved eastwards towards Moscow.  Despite persistent financial problems, the Russian Government had poured money into becoming a spacefaring power, struggling desperately to keep up with the other spacefaring nations.  One of the
other
lessons of Russian history was that the only way to earn respect was through military power.

But that power was gone now, he knew.

The Russian Government had invested far more of its capital in New Russia than anyone outside the country realised.  In the long term, they’d planned, the vast majority of the ethnic Russian population would move to New Russia, which would become a new homeland free of the curses of the past.  But New Russia was gone now – and with it the results of years of investment.  The only thing preventing a general economic crash that would have wiped out the Russian economy once and for all were the infusions of liquid wealth from the other spacefaring nations – and those, he had been told, would not last.  Russia could not afford to lose New Russia.  There was just no way they could develop another world with the resources they had on hand.  Nor could they afford to build up the military strength needed to recover the planet on their own.

He looked down at the draft treaty and swore, under his breath.  The Russian Government had refused to send an Ambassador to the meeting, knowing it would force them to either concede New Russia permanently or break ranks with the other spacefaring powers.  They’d made their feelings clear, Peter had been told.  But it was also clear that they were about to be betrayed.  The other colonies were minor investments, a few billion American dollars worth of infrastructure ... but New Russia was different.  There was nothing that could compensate the Russian Government for what it had lost in the war.

And his orders were clear.  In the event of a betrayal, he and his team were to launch a final attack on the aliens.  They knew it was likely suicide, but they would carry out their orders without fail.  The price for being what they were, cybernetic infiltrators, was being programmed to obey orders, provided they came from the correct authority.  He could alter his tactics to suit himself, but not disobey outright. 

It could cost the human race everything, he knew, but he understood.  The Russian Government would never accept permanent subordination – and that was what they would be facing, if the treaty was passed without further argument.  At best, there would be decades before they could count themselves as a first-rank spacefaring power; at worst, the chaos on the Russian border would sweep northwards and eventually overwhelm civilisation.  He thought of the barbarity of the Central Asians and shuddered.  Better to die hacking and slashing at the aliens then be condemned to a slow lingering death.

He rose for his feet, then reached for the communicator.  It was fortunate that the British had respected diplomatic immunity, for he’d been able to bring a considerable amount of equipment onto the ship with only a handful of cursory scans.  Avoiding detection had been relatively simple.  All he needed to do now was start the operation and hope everything went according to plan.

And if it doesn't
, he thought,
at least we’ll show them that Russian interests always have to be taken into account.

***

There were people, including some of her co-workers, who would have considered Galina
Bezukladnikov a monster.  She had no conscience.  Indeed, any traces of conscience had been carefully edited out of her by the procedures that had cleared her to work in the Russian Biological Warfare Centre years ago.  She’d gone into the operating room a bright young woman with a boyfriend and a loving family; she’d left a scientist so dedicated to scientific research that she’d ended her relationship with her boyfriend and moved everything she wanted to keep into the complex.  But there hadn't been much she’d wanted to keep.  Her old life no longer really existed, even in her own mind.

The challenge of creating a bioweapon designed to attack the aliens had been thrilling, about the only thing that did thrill her these days.  She’d worked hard as part of the joint research team, often pushing the limits much further than they’d considered possible.  But then, she had no moral or ethical doubts about her work.  It was merely a scientific puzzle that had to be solved, like some of the other riddles she'd tried to solve over the years.  The Russian Government wanted a disease that would attack everyone who wasn't of Slavic descent; Galina had worked on the program, heedless of the dangers.  It was just another job for her, after they’d tampered with her mind.  She didn't even care that they’d harvested eggs and raw genetic material from her body in hopes of producing the next generation of scientists.

She glanced down at her wristcom as the message arrived, then carefully removed the device and dropped it on her desk.  The holographic representation of the bioweapon flickered, then vanished as she cancelled the display.  It was a beautiful piece of work – pride in their creation was almost all the emotion she was allowed – but there was no time to become lost in admiration.  All that mattered was that there was no need to try to build safeguards into its genetic structure.  It would burn its way through the alien biochemistry like a forest fire, with no hope of a cure being discovered in time to save the aliens from certain death.

Opening her secure drawer, she removed a case and opened it, revealing a pair of stunners and one full-sized pistol.  Keeping them hidden had been a challenge, but every scientist had their own personal workspace and no one else was allowed to use it.  Galina would have rolled her eyes, if she’d been able to care enough to sneer.  She had spent months taking time off her work to learn how to shoot properly, even though it wasn't her strong point.  But then, she was already inside the defences.  No one else could get into the biological warfare laboratory without permission.