The Fall: Crimson Worlds IX (4 page)

Warren had known the ancient CAC spy was a master manipulator, and he realized she had taken him to school in the frantic espionage that surrounded the various negotiations.  The prelude to global war had seen the Powers scrambling for allies, and Li’s CAC had decisively won that struggle.

The ancient Li An had been a match even for Stark himself, or at least nearly so.  No other adversary had challenged Alliance Intelligence’s brilliant master so effectively.  Indeed, Warren thought, she may have even gotten the best of him in the end.  The perpetrator of the attack that destroyed Alliance Intelligence headquarters and killed Gavin Stark had never been identified, but C1 and its brilliant leader were at the top of everyone’s suspect list.  Even without proof, the incident had been a major factor in provoking the war now raging across the Earth.

“Number One, we have a priority one communication for you from Chancellor Schmidt.”

His head whipped toward the com unit on his desk.  Otto Schmidt was the Chancellor of the Central European League, President Oliver’s counterpart in the CEL.

“Put him through immediately.”  Warren felt a knot in his empty stomach.  He could speculate on a number of reasons the CEL Chancellor would contact him, but none of them were good news.

“Mr. Warren?”  He could hear the exhaustion in the voice on the com, and he could tell immediately there was no AI translating.  The Chancellor spoke flawless English with only the slightest accent, a major improvement over Warren’s poor mastery of German.

“Yes, Mr. Chancellor.  This is a rare honor.  How may I help you?”  His voice was tentative, confused.  Schmidt should rightfully have contacted Oliver, not him.

“I have been unable to reach President Oliver despite several attempts, and it is vital that I speak to someone at the top levels of your government immediately.”  They both knew the head of Alliance Intelligence was one of the most powerful members of the government, despite being ranked fairly far down on official lists of seniority.

Warren held back a sigh.  He knew Oliver was nearing a total breakdown, but he couldn’t imagine the fool being unavailable to an allied head of state during wartime.  “I am sure I can help you, Chancellor.”

“Conditions on our eastern front have been deteriorating rapidly as the RIC continues to mobilize and reinforce its armies.”

“We are aware of the pressure your forces are experiencing on both fronts.  As you know, we are increasing our shipments of…”

“Pardon my interruption, Mr. Warren, but I am aware that your government is doing everything possible to aid our war effort.  Unfortunately, the sum total of this is insufficient to alter the tactical situation.”  He paused.  “Unless we take immediate drastic measures to defeat Europa Federalis, we will be crushed between two enemies.”

Warren felt his stomach roll at the word drastic.  He knew immediately what the Chancellor was going to say, and his mind raced at the likely consequences.

“As per our treaty obligations, I am advising you that at 11PM Washbalt time, General Werner’s First Army Group will launch an offensive to break through the Europan lines and capture Paris.  The attack will be preceded by a hurricane bombardment, including unlimited tactical and intermediate-range nuclear and chemical ordnance.”  Schmidt paused for an instant, the gravity of what he was saying laying heavily on him as he spoke.  “I have authorized and instructed General Werner to restrict the bombardment to targets of military significance, however, I have also advised him that potential collateral damage resulting from his attack is not a consideration.”

Warren took a breath.  In less than two hours, the CEL’s army was going to unleash a massive bombardment that would kill hundreds of thousands, and probably millions, of Europan civilians.  His mind was running wild with the potential consequences.  He knew there was no way to stop the CEL from following through.  It was their only chance.  If they didn’t knock the Europans out of the war, they were finished.  If they won a complete victory on the western front, they could rush General Werner and his veterans to the east.  Werner was their star commander, and his troops the best they had.   Maybe they could at least stalemate the invading RIC armies.

“Thank you for the notice, Chancellor.”  He swallowed hard.  “My best wishes to General Werner and his men.”  He paused.  “And to all of us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Warren.  You will of course pass this on to President Oliver and the other members of your Cabinet?”  It was more a statement than a question.

“Of course, Chancellor.”  Schmidt cut the line.  Warren sat still for a few seconds, trying to organize his thoughts.  He had to get Alliance Intelligence locked down, in case this thing escalated wildly.  He punched at his workstation, pulling up the emergency protocols for potential worldwide nuclear exchanges.  All the years he’d longed for Stark’s job, and now that he was here, he might find himself presiding over the biggest catastrophe in human history.

He put his face in his hands.  There was one thing he had to do first.  He hit the com unit.  “I need to see President Oliver.  Now.”  The fool couldn’t have gotten too far.  They were all locked down deep under the Virginia countryside, with Stonewall protocols in full effect.  “All personnel are to stop whatever they are doing and locate the president immediately.”

Warren sighed.  The fool was probably drunk or strung out somewhere.  Perhaps he had to revisit that coup idea.  Oliver was losing his shit, and the Alliance couldn’t afford a leader right now who was caving under the pressure.  Warren didn’t want Oliver’s job, but he was beginning to realize he might have to take it anyway.

Gavin Stark sat at his desk, a half-finished Scotch sitting neglected alongside his workstation.  His mind was in a dozen places at once, reviewing reports, examining force deployments, updating supply manifests.  His paranoid mind was virtually incapable of trusting anyone, and he micromanaged every aspect of the massive campaign now underway.

Stark was a true genius, his brilliant mind an accident of genetics, an unlikely mutation that gave him analytical ability far in excess of most humans.  He was different in other ways as well, a man with few true emotions.  He could feel rage, certainly, but even that was only a manifestation of his singular focus, a direction of frustration toward those who interfered with his plans.  But emotions like love, loyalty, friendship – they were mostly beyond his ability to feel and understand.  He’d only ever had one friend.  Jack Dutton had been his mentor and confidante, and the old man’s death had severed the only connection Stark had to his humanity.

For all his evil, for the millions of deaths he’d caused and the countless more who would die as his plans progressed, Stark wasn’t really a sadist.  He would torture a captive without hesitation or pity, but only to gain information he needed or to instill useful fear in those who witnessed such brutality.  He rarely tormented enemies simply to gain satisfaction from their suffering, and he rapidly lost interest in those who had opposed him once they were no longer a threat.  He was cold, determined, almost robotic in his actions, and he rarely allowed himself to pursue pointless vendettas that did nothing to further his plans.

Only a few adversaries, those who had truly and repeatedly interfered with his efforts, those who had thwarted him and stood in his way again and again, earned his lasting enmity.  At the top of this list, two men stood above all others, and they were both the target of Stark’s eternal wrath.  He hated Augustus Garret and Erik Cain with a passion utterly inconsistent with his normal cold-blooded demeanor, and his temper flared when he even thought of his greatest enemies.

He’d taken an unacceptable personal risk to attempt an assassination of Cain on Armstrong.  He had missed his nemesis but ended up killing Elias Holm instead.  He’d been frustrated that Cain escaped him, but Holm was another enemy, and Stark knew the Marine Commandant’s death would shatter Erik Cain.  He reveled in the hurt he had caused, even as he scolded himself for taking such a terrible risk.  It was unlike him, and he was beginning to realize that his enmity for the Marines and their allies was affecting his normal calm and rational demeanor.  He struggled against the hatred he felt and forced himself to remember his priorities.  Power was what Stark truly craved, the total domination of all those around him.  He knew he had been born to rule mankind, and now his plans were in their final stages.  He was resolved to remain focused, to execute his plan meticulously, to follow through until humanity was his forever.  Men would bow to him and beg his favor, and he would be their overlord.

He was using every facet of his malevolent intelligence, carefully analyzing his plans, reviewing the reports coming in from all across occupied space, trying to decide what to do next.  Many of his schemes were progressing nicely, but he’d suffered setbacks as well, mostly at the hands of his old nemeses, the cursed Marines and Augustus Garret and his navy.

He leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a smile.  Garret and his Marine allies were about to invade Columbia.  Indeed, he thought, they are probably beginning their attack even now.  It would be a brutal fight, he knew, one that might very well end in the defeat of his occupation forces.  He’d managed to get significant reinforcements to his Shadow Legions there, and they controlled most of the planet’s inhabited areas.  The population had fled to the swamps and wilderness areas, continuing the fight with a futile, but annoying, partisan struggle.

Still, despite the strength of his defenders, he’d seen the Marines in action too many times to discount their chance of success.  They were worked up into a frenzy by the death of their leader, and Stark knew they would hit the ground on Columbia like avenging angels, slaughtering all who stood in their way.  But none of that mattered.  However the battle turned out, it would be a win for Stark, at least in the long run.

Garret and the Marines were cut off from Earth, completely unaware of the disaster unfolding there.  The Alliance navy and Marines were the best fighting forces in space, but they needed supplies to maintain their effectiveness, and soon they’d be down to throwing rocks.  Stark’s plans were long term by nature, and he knew he could eliminate even a victorious Marine Corps and navy by forcing them to expend their supplies and cutting them off from any replenishment.

The great Alliance shipyards at Wolf 359 had already been reduced to floating wreckage, and on every world the Shadow Legions had occupied, they had destroyed any facility capable of producing weapons or supplies for the armed forces.  Garret’s teams had already sabotaged the space-based shipyards and orbital factories of the other Superpowers, enlisting an unlikely team of traitors and deep cover operatives to achieve the goal.  When the struggle on Earth reached its inevitable final phase, the terrestrial factories that had long supplied the space-based forces of the doomed Superpowers would also be gone, reduced to piles of radioactive slag.  Then Garret would see what his vaunted fleet could accomplish with no weapons, no spare parts…and no hope of resupply.  The Marines who survived the impending battle on Columbia could fight their next struggle with sticks and stones.

Stark sat silently, considering his plans.  His own fleet was hidden in Altair’s massive asteroid belt, ships powered down and running silent.  He knew they didn’t have a chance against Garret and his forces, at least not until the great admiral was out of ordnance.  Then he could send his fleet to engage Garret, using unanswered missile volleys to blast the Alliance admiral’s helpless ships to bits at long range…and destroy the “invincible” Augustus Garret once and for all.  But before that day, he had one mission for Admiral Liang and his hidden fleet, a single obstacle remaining in the way of his total domination.

He was worried about Roderick Vance and the Martian Confederation.  He’d planned to deal with them once he’d finished off Garret and the Marines, but now he decided to move up the timetable.  Vance was enormously capable and, unlike the military leaders, he possessed the same sort of subtlety Stark himself did.  The Martian spy was dangerous, and Stark had become worried about what he might be doing in the shadows, how he was feeding information to Garret and the rest of the Alliance leaders.  Martian industry was still intact, and Vance could even supply Garret’s fleet if Stark didn’t do something about it.  No, the Martian problem couldn’t wait any longer.  Vance and the Confederation were the last variable, and it was time to eliminate that uncertainty from the equation.

He reached out and activated his com.  “Admiral Liang, please report to my office immediately.”  He took a deep breath.  “I have a mission for the fleet.”

Vance was walking along the esplanade, staring down into the water as it flowed beneath him.  One day, the Red River would meander unhindered across the plains of a terraformed Mars, but now it was little more than a decorative water feature running around the domed periphery of the Ares Metroplex.  A century of tireless effort had made significant changes to the Martian environment.  The nuclear engines at the poles ran night and day, melting the massive ice caps and releasing oxygen and water vapor into the slowly-thickening atmosphere. 

A man still couldn’t breathe unassisted on the surface of the red planet, but the pressure had improved considerably, and the average temperature had increased by 40 degrees Kelvin.  It was now possible to survive outside for limited periods with proper cold weather gear and an oxygen tank.  Vance had done it himself, feeling a rush of pride in what the Confederation had managed to achieve in its 130 years of existence.  He knew he wouldn’t live to see running rivers and cloudy skies, but he hoped to take a walk outside one day before he died, unaided by breathing equipment and feeling the cool air on his bare face.

He looked up through the dome.   Phobos was almost full, casting a faint glow across the sandy dunes, but Deimos had already set, and its light was gone from the night sky.  Mars’ two moons were small, but they were beautiful, he thought, somehow at home in the velvety night sky.  The fact that he knew both of them housed extensive military and intelligence bases marred that serene image somewhat, and he momentarily longed for an age when Mars was safe, when her security no longer required people like him to stand on the line and hold off those who would see the Confederation destroyed, its people reduced to abject slaves.

He didn’t know if that day would ever come.  He knew what Erik Cain would say, but he found himself grasping at faint hopes for the best.  Vance had lived most of his life certain he’d never meet his match in cynicism, but that was before his path had crossed that of the grim Alliance Marine.  Cain didn’t believe in much, nothing really, beyond the men and women who served at his side.  He tended to expect the worst from everyone else and, more often than not, he had been right.

Vance was a cold man in many ways, and he was often seen as aloof and humorless.  It wasn’t entirely a fair assessment, but he’d accepted it as part of the life he’d chosen to lead.  He could have enjoyed a luxurious existence running his family’s massive business empire, but he knew his beloved Confederation existed in a dangerous universe, and he’d sworn to do whatever was necessary to ensure its survival.  That often meant taking dark actions, and sometimes people died because of what he did.  Often, in fact.  It was part of the job, something he’d learned to live with, however uncomfortably.

His father had also been a loner, and he’d died when Vance was still a child.  It wasn’t until years later he learned his father had perished in the service of Mars, leading her intelligence agencies as he himself would one day.  His family was one of the wealthiest on Mars.  Indeed, they were one of the richest anywhere, but he learned it also had a long tradition of service to the Confederation, a history he chose to continue.

“Mr. Vance?”  The voice came from behind a row of small trees, evergreens imported from the Pacific Northwest on Earth.  The trees were almost extinct on their homeworld, but the Confederation’s domes harbored samples of many plants no longer found on Earth.

“Yes, Jaquin, it’s me.”  Vance held back a sigh.  He’d arranged the meeting himself, but now he was resenting the intrusion into his quiet time.  It wasn’t rational, but he’d begun to think about how little of Roderick Vance truly remained beyond the servant to duty.  Quiet, introspective moments had become precious to him, and he’d come to guard them jealously.  He knew he wasn’t likely to have much time to himself in the near future, not with the disasters unfolding all around him.

He quickly put aside such thoughts and forced his mind back to the present.  If the Mars he dreamed about was ever to exist, Vance knew it had to survive first.  He had to stay focused, do what duty called on him to do.  His toils would buy the Confederation the future its people deserved, and generations of Martians would have a chance at life and freedom.

He turned to face his agent.  Jaquin Diervos was one of his most reliable men, just back from a long and dangerous mission.  “What do you have for me?”

“Well, sir…”  The agent spoke softly, his voice tentative, uncertain.  “…you were correct.  The Caliphate orbital factories at Persis have been destroyed in series of nuclear explosions.  The official position is that Admiral Abbas and his fleet are responsible, that they are heretics and traitors who have defected from the Caliphate.”  Of course that was the official position only for communications with those already aware Abbas had declared his fleet unaligned with the home government.  The masses living in the Caliphate, and the millions serving in its armies on Earth had no idea anything at all was amiss in the colonies.

“Abbas, my ass.”  Vance took a deep breath.  “Abbas wouldn’t have taken action against a Caliphate colony.  He only went rogue because the Caliph proscribed him, along with dozens of other officers guilty of no offense beyond serving bravely alongside the Alliance navy in the war with the First Imperium.”

“That is what they are saying, Mr. Vance.”  The spy’s tone suggested he didn’t believe it any more than Vance.

“Garret wouldn’t have done it either.  Not when he was allied with the Caliphate fleet.”  Vance looked out over the river, the lights of the city rippling off the slowly moving water.  “It had to be Stark.”  He paused, thinking quietly for a few seconds.  “But why would he bother with a target like that?  With the Caliphate fleet gone rogue and Persis still loyal to the home government, what purpose was served by blasting a bunch of unused factories to slag?”

“There have been similar incidents, sir.”  The agent stepped out of the shadows and moved closer to Vance, lowering his voice as he did.  “Facilities have also been destroyed on San Rafael, Constantia, and several other worlds.”  He paused.  “It appears that all of the interstellar production assets and shipyards of the Superpowers have been targeted and destroyed in incidents that resemble terrorist activity.”

Vance stood quietly, imagining the brilliance it had taken to mastermind such a widespread series of operations.  He reminded himself again to be cautious, to never underestimate Gavin Stark.  “He is systematically destroying every facility capable of supplying an interstellar fleet.”  Vance stared down into the water, the lights of the city dancing on its gently rippling surface.  Why, he thought, why would Stark waste resources and take the risk to destroy those facilities?  Most war production was still Earth-based, so…