MERCS: Crimson Worlds Successors (21 page)

But now he had been the ruler of Eldaron for almost twenty years, and his arrogance had grown with his power.  On his world he was feared by all, and his slightest whim was law.  Yet here he was, once again on Vali, called to attend his masters like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s office.  He knew he couldn’t match the power of the Triumvirate, and he was too smart to defy them.  However powerful he was on Eldaron, he understood he was only a part of the Plan.  His continued power depended on his good standing with the three beings who had given it in the beginning—and who could undoubtedly take it from him if they wished.

He walked to the chair in the middle of the room.  It was plush leather, a large and comfortable seat—and the only bit of furniture in the room.  He walked over and sat down, his mind filling with old memories.  The room looked exactly the same as it had.  Even the chair was identical.  He knew it was twenty years older now, yet it still looked new, as it had that day long before.

The lights went down. 
I can see the theatrics haven’t changed.
There was an odd psychology to the way the Triumvirate operated.  He suspected they analyzed every move they made, even the way they issued orders and communicated with minions.  He couldn’t argue with their effectiveness.  The three unseen despots ruled a secret organization that controlled over 100 worlds, mostly discretely, through local leaders like Maranov.  And on hundreds of other planets, they wielded partial power.  They operated through secret ownership of industrial concerns, shadowy underworld operations, well-placed bribes and blackmail to control politicians.  For thirty years they had extended their tentacles throughout human-occupied space—and now they were almost ready to make their bid for total control.

“Greetings to you, Tyrant of Eldaron.  And welcome to Vali.  We have summoned you for a reason.”  The voice was strange, different than last time.  When he’d been here twenty years before, he had sat in the same spot, but the voices he’d heard had been natural, as if those speaking were sitting in the room with him.  Now, there was an artificiality to them, some kind of electronic enhancement. 
I wonder what has changed.  Why are they hiding behind artificial voices?

“Greetings, noble Triumvirs.”

“Congratulations are in order for the manner in which you have ruled Eldaron.  Your world has become one of the leading powers in Occupied Space.  You have very effectively deployed the resources we have provided, and to any observer, Eldaron’s growth would appear organic.  Your control is absolute, and you have avoided petty disputes with neighbors that would have brought unwanted attention to your activities.”

“My thanks, noble Triumvirs.  I strive only to serve.”

“And that service will be rewarded.  When the Plan is activated, we have decided that your rule will be expanded beyond your world.  Eldaron is to be a sector capital, and you are to be the governor, with 100 planets to be conquered and placed under your control.”

Maranov was stunned.  “Thank you, noble Triumvirs,” he stammered.  He’d been worried the summons to Vali had come because of his growing discontent, that he had somehow given off signals that he resented the Triumvirs’ control over him.  He’d even had a flash of panic that he would never return.  But now they were heaping praise on him—and offering him power beyond his wildest dreams.

“We would add to your responsibilities, even now, before the Plan’s final stage.”

“I am at your command, noble Triumvirs.”

“Your loyalty is known and appreciated, Tyrant.”  The voice paused for an instant.  “We have a number of programs underway designed to maximize disruption throughout Occupied Space prior to the activation of the final stage of the Plan.  Among these initiatives are a number of attacks we have launched on various outposts and locations, designed to implicate the Black Eagles and the other Great Companies.  We seek to spread discord, and to increase tensions, matching the companies against each other with the ultimate goal of destroying them, or at least weakening them before we release the Omega Forces.”

The screen on the far wall shimmered to life.  “This map summarizes the operations in your pending area of control…both those that have already begun and those that are in the planning stages.  You will note that the largest of these was recently conducted at Lysandria, where we successfully manipulated the Gold Spears into facing off against the Black Eagles.  We supplemented the Spears with 3,000 of our Omega forces in an attempt to attrit the Eagles as much as possible.

“The effort was marginally successful.  Although the Black Eagles were hurt in the battle, the damage done to them was less than we had hoped—and extremely disproportional to the resources deployed.  As the Gold Spears were effectively destroyed, and thus eliminated from the overall pool of mercenary units that could become potential adversaries, the operation must be accounted an overall success.  But we must now consider the Black Eagles to be the greatest threat to the success of the Plan, even more so than before.  The alliance of 3,000 of our Omega warriors with the Gold Spears was less far effective than we’d expected.  Darius Cain is a military genius, perhaps the greatest mankind has ever produced.  If he should attempt to rally support, and use his Eagles as the spearhead of a united resistance, the Plan could be in jeopardy.”

“I understand, noble Triumvirs.  What can I do?”

“You can help us set a trap for Darius Cain.  You can destroy the Black Eagles.”

Maranov felt as if he’d been hit by a sledgehammer.  All his arrogance faded, and he felt a rush of fear.  The Black Eagles had never lost a battle.  And they had just proven their abilities again on Lysandria.  Now he was supposed to entice them to attack his world?  How could he possibly face them?

“You needn’t be concerned,” the voice continued.  “You will be provided with ample forces to supplement your Eldari army, more than enough to destroy the Black Eagles.  You will go now and return to Eldaron.  Fortify the planet. Turn it into a death trap for an invader.  Built fortresses, tunnels, bunkers.  Put all of your weapons into a state of complete readiness.  Turn your cities into traps for an enemy.  We will begin sending you Omega forces shortly.  They will be disguised, appearing as immigrants and foreign workers, and you will arrange to house them in total secrecy.  No word of their presence must leak.”

“Yes, noble Triumvirs.”  He swallowed hard.  He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d been summoned, but this certainly wasn’t it.  “But, if I may ask a question…”

“You may, Tyrant.”

“I can prepare Eldaron, as you command, but how can I make the Black Eagles attack?  I am sure I can provoke them, but there is no guarantee they will actually assault Eldaron.”

“Do not concern yourself with that at present, Tyrant.  You already have in your possession the means to lure General Cain into an ill-fated attack, and when it is time, you will receive further instructions on how to proceed.  When you activate the final stage of the plan, the Black Eagles will come, all of them.”

“But Darius Cain is a brilliant commander.  What if he suspects a trap?”

“He will almost certainly suspect a trap, Tyrant.  But when the bait is fully deployed, he will attack anyway.”

Chapter 17

He felt like he was floating.  Thoughts were drifting through his head, vague, disconnected.  He didn’t understand, didn’t know where he was, how he had gotten there.  Even who he was.  There was something…a thought?  A sound?  Reaching to him from the distance.

He ignored it at first, but it was still there.  Stronger, more insistent.  Then his thoughts began to fuse together, to take on clarity.  The sound became louder, and now there was feeling too, something hitting him, poking at his side. 

His eyes opened, the lids crusted together, peeling slowly apart.  The light was bright, harsh.  Memories were coming back. 
Jack Lompoc, I am Jack Lompoc.  I remember.
  He winced as he felt another poke in his side.  His eyes began to focus.  There was someone standing over him, leaning down, hitting him.

He felt a rush of anger, an urge to leap up at the image, but now he remembered.  Wandering into the enemy camp, surrendering, something in his arm…pain…an injection.  Then nothing…now he was here.  He had succeeded, gotten himself captured. 
What the hell was I thinking?

“Hey!”  Another poke.  “Wake the fuck up.  This isn’t a fucking vacation.”

The voice was coarse, with an angry tone.  He turned his head, looking up at the man standing over him.  “I’m awake,” he croaked, his parched voice barely managing a whisper.

“Yeah?  Then get the fuck up.  It’s time to wash your filthy hide and get your classification confirmed.”  Another poke, harder than the others.  “C’mon.  Move!”

Lompoc forced himself to sit upright.  The pain threatening to blow his head off gave him an idea just how powerful a sedative his captors had given him.  He was stiff, barely able to force his limbs to move.  He figured he’d been out for a while, days probably.  He wondered where he was…and if Girard had managed to maintain contact.  He knew that was his only hope.  But had the ship transited one of Sol’s two warp gates? Could the Martian spy still track him if they had left the system?

“Get on your feet!”  The yell was angry, impatient.  “That’s the last time I’m going tell you.”

Lompoc felt another impact, harder.  Pain.  He swung his feet around the edge of the small shelf he’d been lying upon.  His head was spinning, and he closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to regain his equilibrium.  He slid himself slowly off the shelf, feeling his feet hit the ground.  His legs almost buckled, but he managed to keep himself up.

“Where are we?”  His throat was still dry, but his words were clearer, less slurred.

He heard harsh laughter.  “We’re someplace better than you’re going to, I can tell you that much.  Now move your ass.”  Another shove, this time in the back—and more caustic laughter.

Lompoc moved slowly, shuffling in the direction his captor pushed him.  He was sore everywhere, but there was a sharp pain in his abdomen, worse than the rest.  The tracker, he realized. 
Of course, it would have to dig in somewhere or I’d just crap it out.
  He wondered if Girard had left out that little detail deliberately. He wondered offhand how the thing came out when the mission was done. 
That’s the least of your worries now.

He stumbled, reaching out, grabbing onto the wall.

“C’mon boy, we ain’t got all day.  You know how many of you stinking carcasses we gotta move?”

*        *        *        *        *

“Do you still have contact?”  Axe’s voice was weak, and there was a rattling sound in his chest.  The last few days had been extremely difficult ones, and his first blast-off into space hadn’t helped things.  He’d gotten motion sickness that almost turned him inside out, until he was at a loss to even guess where all the bloody vomit was coming from.

“Yes, Axe.  The signal is good.  It’s highly encrypted, so unless they’re really looking for it, it should remain undetected.  “And that means Jack is alive and onboard.  The device works off body heat, so if the host dies, the signal will fade as the emergency battery is drained.”  Girard looked at the battered Earthlings and changed the subject.  “You two really need some decent medical treatment.  I’m going to set a course for Mars.”  There was an edge to his voice.  His trip to Earth had been extremely unofficial.  He wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to explain two sick and injured passengers.  But Axe was done for if he didn’t get to a hospital soon, and Tommie’s wound didn’t look good either.  It had been a long time since Girard had run into it last, but you never forgot the smell of gangrene.

“No.”  Axe’s voice was weak, but there was certainty to his tone.  “We have to follow them.  We can’t let them escape.”

Girard shook his head.  “The tracking device’s signal will be picked up by the Commnet stations throughout the system.  We don’t need to follow them closely to track where they go.”  Axe was shaking his head.  “No, Axe, you don’t understand.  We can’t follow them.  They clearly have some sort of stealth system on their ships.  We don’t.  If we pursue them now—and if their pilot isn’t an imbecile—they’ll know they’re being followed.  And since they were gathering slaves, and now they’re slipping away in what have to be extremely expensive stealth ships, my guess is they wouldn’t take well to having a tail.”

He walked over and sat down next to Axe.  “This ship is almost unarmed, so there’s a good chance they’d just blow us away.  Or, if they panicked, they might space their captives or throw them in the reactor core.”  He sighed.  “No, we need to go to Mars.  I need to tell Roderick Vance about all of this.  He has the resources to do something about it.  All we can do ourselves is blunder into getting caught…and that would just get us—and probably the prisoners—scragged.”

Axe slumped a bit in his seat, but he didn’t argue.  Finally, he looked over at Girard and said, “I guess you’re right, but what if they leave the system?  What if they go through one of the warp gates and vanish?”

Girard sighed.  “That tracker will link up with any Commnet relay, and there are well-developed networks on the other side of both of Sol’s warp gates.  If they leave the system, things will get more complicated, certainly.  We’ll have to deal with the governments of whatever systems they travel through, but we’ll still have a good chance to track them.” 

The Martian spy knew “good chance” wasn’t what Axe was looking for, though he’d rather exaggerated the prospects even to get to that.  If the target ships left the system, there was some chance to track where they went, but if he was being honest, he wouldn’t characterize it as good.  Still, he figured massaging the truth was the right move at the moment.  Axe didn’t look happy by any means, but he wasn’t arguing either.

Girard got up and walked across the small room, sliding into the pilot’s chair.  He activated the com unit, choosing a direct laser relay to Martian Control.  “This is the Martian vessel Fortuna, requesting landing    clearance at Ares spaceport.”

“
Fortuna
, why are you transmitting via direct laser contact?  Are you under attack or being pursued by hostiles?”

Girard took a deep breath. 
And so the questions begin
.  “Negative, Martian Control.” 
Think fast, Girard
.  “We are having problems with our communications.  The emergency communications circuit is all that is functioning right now.”

There was a short delay in the response. 
I hope they buy that.

“Very well,
Fortuna
, you are cleared to land.  Approach coordinates are being transmitted now.”

Girard sighed with relief.  “Affirmative, Martian Control. 
Fortuna
out.”

So far so good, but they’re going to be all over me with questions when we touch down.  What the hell am I going to tell them?  This should be fun.

He flipped a switch, activating another com line, a very secret one.  “This is Girard, calling for Roderick Vance.  Immediate reply requested.” 
Sorry, Roderick, but this is messier than either of us expected when you sent me out.

*        *        *        *        *

Lompoc lay still, feeling the heaviness of 4g deceleration pressing against him.  At least he thought it was deceleration.  In truth, it was hard to tell if a ship was accelerating or decelerating.  He was surrounded by other captives, and all of them were awake now.  They were lying on shelves, three to a level.  He was in the middle, with another prisoner on either side.  They were all shackled at the wrists and ankles.  The sanitation arrangements were rudimentary—just a hosing down of the shelves every few hours—and the place stank like nothing he’d experienced.

He’d been trying his best to pay attention, listening to the conversations of the guards and the activity all around.  The g forces had been the same when he’d first awakened, but then there had been a brief period of free fall.  When the heaviness returned, it felt slightly different. He was no expert on space travel, but he’d guessed the ship had begun decelerating—and that meant they were approaching their destination.

Lompoc had only been in space twice, and both of those trips had been to Earth’s moon.  But he’d known agents who’d gone on interstellar trips, and from the descriptions they’d given him of the experience, he was pretty sure they hadn’t passed through a warp gate, at least not since he’d been conscious.  His best guess was they were still in the Sol system.  But he knew the Confederation maintained installations on most of the planets and major moons.  And it was very unlikely they would welcome a band of slavers on any of them.

He turned his head to the left, trying to get a look past the man lying next to him.  He could see some vague movement, but nothing he could place.  He sighed hard and looked up at the shelf twenty centimeters above his head. 
I hope you guys are following this ship
, he thought. 
‘Cause I’m fucked if you’re not.

He tried to move his arms, testing the strength of the shackles.  He only had a few centimeters of slack, and when he tried to move his arms they didn’t budge.  Not a millimeter.  He felt a surge of fear.  The prospect of spending whatever was left of his life as a slave—or a guinea pig in some lab, or whatever else—was a hard one to take.  He was no coward.  He’d lived with danger in the years since the Fall, and even before as an agent stationed in New York.  But nothing like this.  The whole stupid plan had made sense when Girard suggested it, but now Lompoc realized how many things could go wrong.  Or, perhaps more to the point, how many had to all go right for this escapade to end well for him.

They’ll come
, he thought to himself.  But he wasn’t sure he believed it.

*        *        *        *        *

Axe woke up in a hospital bed.  He was tired—no, exhausted.  He was sore in a dozen places, but he felt strangely better too.  He turned to look across the room…and there was no pain!  He moved his hand to his side, feeling for the crude bandages that had covered his wound.  They were gone, replaced by a simple gauze pad.  He threw the sheet down off of him and looked down.  Both his wounds had healed considerably.  Most of the pain was gone, and they were just a bit tender.

He took a breath—and he realized the pain was gone there too.  He breathed again, deeply this time, deeper than he had dared in months.  He felt a little flutter in his chest, but there was no coughing spasm, so spray of blood from his throat.

He leaned forward and turned his head, scanning his surroundings.  He was alone in a small room.  Most of the furniture and fixtures were bright white, and the place was lit by a pair of strip lights on the ceiling.  He turned to try to get up, and he felt a sharp pain.  He stopped and looked around.  There were a pair of IVs connected to his left arm.  One was still firmly in place, but he had pulled the other one partially loose.  A fluid was leaking out and running down his arm.  It was almost clear, with just a slight yellow tinge to it.

A few seconds later, a medical technician came in.  She was dressed in spotless white scrubs, and when she saw he was awake, she smiled.  “Good morning, Mr. Axe.”

Axe almost laughed.  His name sounded ridiculous with “Mr.” before it.  He hadn’t been born Axe, of course, but for more years than he could count, way back to his days as a young boy hanging out around the gang, desperately trying to be accepted, he had been called simply Axe.

“Good morning,” he stammered.  “Where am I?”

“You are in Ares Hospital.  Mr. Vance himself checked you in for treatment.”

“Treatment?”  He stared down at the dressing on his wound.  “Oh, yes, the gunshots.”

The tech looked down earnestly.  “Yes, of course.  And the cancer.  If you had only had the gunshot injuries, you would have been released already.  They have been thoroughly cleaned out and the wounds fused.  They will be a bit sore for another day or two, but otherwise they are fine.  But the cancer treatment was a bit more involved.”

“Treatment?  What did you do?”  Axe had lived with a death sentence over his head for at least a year, along with the stress of trying to hide it—from Ellie, from the people of Jericho.