Wolf’s Bane

(The Empire’s Corps – Book XIV)

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall

Cover by Alexander Chau
(www.alexanderchau.co.uk)

All Comments Welcome!

Series Listing

Book One: The Empire’s Corps
Book Two: No Worse Enemy
Book Three: When The Bough Breaks
Book Four: Semper Fi
Book Five: The Outcast
Book Six: To The Shores
Book Seven: Reality Check
Book Eight: Retreat Hell
Book Nine: The Thin Blue Line 
Book Ten: Never Surrender
Book Eleven: First To Fight
Book Twelve: They Shall Not Pass
Book Thirteen: Culture Shock
Book Fourteen: Wolf’s Bane

Cover Blurb

The Commonwealth has won a great victory, smashing Wolfbane’s attempt to take Corinthian and driving Admiral Singh’s forces back into enemy space.  Now, as the Wolves reel under the impact of their defeat - and powerful factions plot to take control of the government and military - Edward Stalker plans a final offensive to bring the Wolves to their knees.

But as mighty fleets clash in the inky darkness of space, infiltrators struggle to weaken a tottering edifice and both sides brace for the final confrontation, it all comes down to the last Terran Marines and a battle that will determine if the galaxy is to be united once again ...

... Or thrown headlong back into a new Dark Age.

A Note From The Author

As always, I would be grateful for any spelling corrections, grammar suggestions, nitpicking and suchlike.  Please send reports directly to my email address or through Amazon.

Thanks for reading!  If you liked the book, please write a review.  They help to boost sales.

CGN

Prologue

From: The Day After: The Post-Empire Universe and its Wars.  Professor Leo Caesius.  Avalon University Press.  46PE.

Materially speaking, the Battle of Corinthian - technically, the Corinthian Campaign - was not a decisive encounter.  Wolfbane did not lose enough men and materiel to ensure its defeat, nor did the Commonwealth gain enough of an advantage to reasonably claim to have the upper hand.  The loss of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, spacers and civilians did not affect the balance of power.  In many ways, the battle was as meaningless as the skirmishes over Cantor, a stage-one colony that swapped hands a dozen times during the course of the war.

But, politically, the Commonwealth won the Battle of Corinthian.  

For the first time, the Commonwealth lured the Wolves into fighting on terrain of its own choosing, using its technological advantages to offset the enemy advantages in men, machinery and firepower.  Admiral Singh, now unquestioned ruler of the Wolfbane Consortium, bore the sole blame for a campaign that cost hundreds of thousands of lives and destroyed many of Wolfbane’s most powerful military formations.  And while her position was - on the surface - secure - she knew as well as anyone else that her defeat might lead to her fall from grace.  Resuming the offensive, therefore, was simply impossible.

It must have been frustrating to Singh to know - as she did - that the Wolves still held a considerable advantage in military tonnage.  A direct strike at Avalon itself might have ended the war in their favour, despite the growing array of firepower the Commonwealth had assembled to defend its capital.  A noted military theorist like her - like most admirals of the late Empire, Singh’s experience in extensive naval combat was purely theoretical - could hardly have failed to note the possibilities, all the more so as uncovering Wolfbane would not have weakened her position notably.  And yet, launching such an offensive was politically impossible.  

And so the war paused, while the universe held its breath.

The Commonwealth, too, was aware of the weakness of its position.  Technologically, it held a considerable advantage; materially, it was outnumbered and outmatched.  The Wolves could afford to lose more than the Commonwealth in any major battle - indeed, the loss ratio in almost all major encounters was two-to-one in the Commonwealth’s favour - and production of the new weapons and technology was hardly keeping up with demand.  Given time, Singh and her allies would rebalance themselves, purge the naysayers, and resume the offensive.  

Worse, there were rumours that the Wolves were developing their own advanced weapons and technologies.  While Singh had been badly worried by her first - and bruising - encounters with Commonwealth weapons, she was too experienced a naval officer to allow herself to panic.  The Commonwealth had surprised her, true, but it had not produced a single workable silver bullet, a weapon that would render the entire pre-collapse Imperial Navy obsolete at a stroke.  Given time, she told her allies, the Commonwealth’s advantages could be negated and their weapons duplicated.  And she was right.  It was ruefully acknowledged by the Commonwealth - during and after the war - that the new weapons were never as advantageous in the field as their designers proclaimed.

The window of opportunity for taking the offensive, for knocking the Wolves back on their heels, was therefore closing rapidly.  For all its advantages, the Commonwealth might still lose the war - and with it, all hopes of replacing the fallen Empire with something better, something that would weather any future collapses with ease.  The fate of the war - and humanity itself - hung in the balance.

Fortunately, Edward Stalker had a plan.

Chapter One

Admiral Rani Singh had never been one to despair.  She’d worked her way up the ranks through ability alone, even though jealous and amorous superiors had done their best to put her down.  She still smiled whenever she remembered Admiral Bainbridge, the randy old goat who’d done his level best to destroy her career after she’d declined his advances.  The old man had transferred her to System Command, never realising the power he’d put into her hands until it was far too late.  She’d never given up, even when she’d lost Corinthian to the Commonwealth and had to flee to Wolfbane.  She was mistress of a hundred stars, unchallenged ruler of a small empire of her own ... and weaker, perhaps, than she dared admit, even to herself.

She stood at the window, staring out over the city.  Tryon blazed with light, towering skyscrapers reaching up to touch the very edge of the atmosphere.  Governor Brown, whatever one could say about him, had done an excellent job of putting Wolfbane’s economy back on a sound footing.  The corporations were happy, the network of industrial nodes were humming along, producing an endless supply of everything she needed to extend her empire still further.  And if someone didn't want to acknowledge Wolfbane as the new mistress of the universe, she had more than enough firepower to crack any defences.  Opening up hundreds of colonies for her corporations had been easy.

And yet, the war with the Commonwealth had taken a dark turn.

She gritted her teeth in frustration.  She’d talked Governor Brown into starting the war, pointing out that the Commonwealth’s growing technical superiority would eventually turn it into a major competitor, perhaps even a threat.  And she’d been right.  If anything, she'd underestimated the Commonwealth’s advantages.  But Governor Brown had been assassinated, she’d taken command ... and made a serious mistake.

Rani admitted that, in the privacy of her own mind.  She’d allowed herself to be duped, believe - because she’d wanted to believe - what her intelligence agents were saying.  And, perhaps, because she wanted to return to Corinthian, to recover the world she’d lost so many years ago.  But it had been a mistake.  Hundreds of thousands of lives had been lost, dozens of formations had been smashed ...

She lifted her head, staring at the towers.  They seemed to look back at her, mockingly.  She had no illusions about the industrialists who ruled the planet, who bowed to her only because they feared her.  Governor Brown had known how to talk to them, how to balance the dozens of competing factions in order to keep them happy and himself on top, but Rani didn't have that advantage.  Diplomacy had never been her strong suit.  The industrialists respected her military might, appreciated her willingness to use force in defence of their interests, but they didn’t like her.  And now they thought she was weak, she knew all too well, they would be plotting against her.

And I can't strike first without losing the war, she thought, grimly.  She drew herself upright, centring herself.  They’ll rip the industrial base to shreds if I try to purge them.

She lowered her gaze, peering down into the darkness below the glowing towers.  Wolfbane had a large and growing population, a population that was only kept in line through liberal applications of the carrot and the stick.  Governor Brown hadn't helped by conscripting every technical expert for a hundred light years and transporting them to Wolfbane, forcing them to work to maintain and expand the planet’s industrial base.  There had been a shortage of trained technicians, Rani recalled, but in the long run it had been a mistake.  Countless workers now had good reason to be angry at the regime, the skills to turn their anger into action ...

... And they were too valuable for her to purge.  She’d started training programs, of course, handing out rewards like candy to anyone who passed, but the demand for trained manpower was endless.  Rani couldn't afford a crackdown, even on men and women her security officers knew to be subversives.  She could only hope that she could keep the lid on long enough to win the war, which would allow her more freedom of movement.  And yet, she knew that wasn't going to be easy.  Resuming the offensive, after Corinthian, would probably provoke open rebellion.

She looked up, her eyes seeking out the starships and orbital battlestations protecting the planet.  The corporations had demanded that she protect their homeworld - despite the risk of a major attack being almost nil - and she hadn't been able to refuse them.  But it tied down hundreds of starships she could have taken to Avalon, if she’d had a completely free hand.  It wasn't as if the orbital stations couldn't protect the planet ...

And I’m down here in the fortress, she thought.  I can’t even go back to orbit without looking weak.

Her lips twitched in amusement.  Governor Brown - or one of his predecessors - had created the fortress, apparently under the delusion that it represented an effective defence.  Rani supposed it would be, against unarmed civilian rioters or even enemy soldiers, but it would be worse than useless against an enemy who gained control of the high orbitals.  Hell, it was just a big target, one that would attract KEWs like flies to rotting meat.  Unless, of course, Wolfbane managed to duplicate the Commonwealth’s force field generator.  Now that would give whoever had ordered the fortress the last laugh ...

... And Governor Brown hadn't even been in the fortress when he’d been assassinated.

She turned, composing herself, as she heard the door open behind her.  Only a handful of people had access to her private apartments, although she was honest enough with herself to admit that even the most extreme precautions wouldn't keep out a truly determined assassin or stop someone transporting a nuke into firing position.  The fortress was designed to take a nuclear strike - the designer had layered the building with starship-grade hullmetal - but she had her doubts.  Civilians, in her experience, rarely understood the realities of combat.

“Admiral,” Paula Bartholomew said.  “I have an intelligence update.”

Rani nodded, tiredly.  Paula was loyal, she had to be loyal.  She’d betrayed General James Stubbins, then the Commonwealth ... there was a good chance that, if someone found out the truth, that they’d charge Paula with betraying Governor Brown, too.  Rani disliked using someone with such flexible loyalties, someone who might desert her at once if she were offered something better, but she had no choice.  Besides, Paula was smart enough to understand the weakness of her own position.  No one would defend her if Rani decided to have her killed.

They made an odd couple, Rani had to admit.  She was tall, dark-skinned and dark-eyed; she held herself with a military bearing that was an unspoken challenge to every man in the room.  She’d learnt, back at the Naval Academy, that the key to earning respect was to do nothing that might dampen that respect.  Admiral Bainbridge’s promised rewards would have been worthless, if her subordinates had believed - correctly - that she’d prostituted herself to earn them.  And Paula was short, blonde and pretty in a way that owed everything to the body-shops.  Her shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, drawing the male gaze and short-circuiting the male mind.  Rani was less impressed with that than Paula might have hoped - power was more interesting than sex, in her opinion - but she had to admit that it worked.  Anyone who underestimated Paula would regret it.

She met Paula’s eyes.  “Spit it out.”

Paula looked back at her, evenly.  “Mouganthu and Hernandez had a meeting this afternoon,” she said.  “We couldn't get a bug into the meeting chamber itself, but we do know it lasted for at least three hours before Hernandez returned to his aircar and flew home.”

Rani lifted her eyebrows.  “And you’re only telling me about this now?”

“Mouganthu had his security staff put the tower in lockdown,” Paula replied.  “Our agent didn't have a chance to send a message until 1900.”

“I see,” Rani said.  “Were they alone?”

“Apparently,” Paula said.  “Our agent wasn't in a good position to be certain.”

Rani nodded, turning back to the window.  Mouganthu Tower was clearly visible in the distance, glowing with light against the dark sky.  Hernandez Tower was on the other side of the fortress, out of sight.  Mouganthu and Hernandez ... two of the most powerful men on the planet, perhaps in the sector.  Their meeting - and a secret meeting, one without aides or secretaries - boded ill for her.  And yet, she could do nothing.  She couldn't insist they opened their doors to her spies, could she?

She looked back at Paula.  “And the others?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as we can tell,” Paula said.  “Tallyman may have been invited to the meeting - there was some encrypted traffic between the towers - but we don’t know for sure.”

“Of course not,” Rani said.

She shook her head in annoyance.  The Wolfbane Consortium was built on genteel - and sometimes not so genteel - competition between corporations.  Governor Brown had encouraged it, insisting that it kept them sharp and himself on top.  But he’d created one hell of a problem for his successor.  She knew her intelligence staff would decrypt the messages eventually - she was sure of it - but by then it might be too late.

Or the messages will look innocuous, on the surface, she thought.  We won’t understand the hidden meanings.

“Keep an eye on the three of them,” she ordered.  “And see if you can find an incentive for Straphang or Wu to cooperate with us.”

“Wu is bidding to get the next set of naval contracts,” Paula said.  “Straphang is facing financial troubles and probably trying to reduce her exposure.  We could probably make them both decent offers.”

She hesitated.  “But we can't offer anything that would be completely convincing.”

Rani nodded, irked.  The corporate leaderships were practically an aristocracy in their own right, just like the never-to-be-sufficiently damned Grand Senate.  She was surprised Governor Brown hadn't created a peerage system for them.  But, whatever their titles, the leaderships kept one eye on the future at all times.  They’d make preparations for all eventualities, including one where she fell from power or was brutally overthrown.  And they certainly wouldn't commit themselves to her ...

“Do it,” she ordered.  Keeping as many directors as possible on her side was important, at least until the war was won.  “And then ...”

Her wristcom bleeped.  “Admiral, this is Tobias,” a voice said.  “I have an update for you.  I think you’ll like it.”

“I hope you’re right,” Rani said.  She glanced at Paula, who shrugged.  “I’ll meet you in my office, half an hour from now.”

***
Professor Tobias Jameson was a young man who looked older, thanks to the abuse he’d suffered during his short career at Mouganthu Industries and then at the University of Wolfbane.  He’d been very lucky, according to his file, to even get a place in the university, after he’d upset his corporate sponsors.  Insisting that there was a better way to do things - that modern tech hadn't reached its limits - had won him no friends.  Ironically, it had also won him a job after Governor Brown had realised that the Empire was gone.

“Professor,” Rani said.  She liked and trusted him, insofar as she liked and trusted anyone these days.  It hadn't saved Jameson from an extensive security check before he was allowed into her office.  “I trust that you have good news for me?”

“I do,” Jameson said.  

He took control of the projector and displayed a set of holographic images.  “As you know, we have concentrated a great deal of effort on finding ways to either counter or duplicate the Commonwealth’s force field generator,” he said.  “This has not proven easy, Admiral.  Some of our researchers are still in deep denial about the whole thing.”

Rani snorted, rudely.  She’d been in denial too, but it hadn't lasted.  Theory might insist that force field generators were as plausible as alien invaders bent on fighting their way to Earth and crushing humanity; practice told her that force field generators were a reality.  Her sensors hadn't had flights of fancy when they’d reported missiles striking the force fields and detonating harmlessly.  If the Commonwealth ever ironed out the bugs - if they ever managed to produce a force field that wrapped the entire starship in a bubble - the war would come to a very quick and unpleasant end.

And our researchers refuse to believe that it is even real, she thought, tiredly.  They don’t have the right mindset to keep pushing the limits of the possible.

“Thankfully, we do have some researchers who dug deep into the theory behind starship drives and suchlike,” Jameson continued.  “Their conclusion, after working through a number of computer models, was that the force field is actually a manipulation of the starship’s drive field.  In a sense, they have converted the standard drive field into a rocket - and diverted the rest of the output into a forward-facing force shield.”

Paula leaned forward.  “Wouldn't that slow the ship?  I mean ... the drive is pointing forwards.  Right?”

“According to our computer models, probably not,” Jameson said.  “The missile - or whatever hits the force field - does not hit a solid barrier.  Instead, it is torn apart by a series of tiny, but intense gravimetric fluctuations.  The same is largely true of energy weapons, we think.  An energy beam would be scattered long before it reached the hull.”

He paused.  “This wouldn't necessarily be true of the large-scale force shield they used on Corinthian,” he added.  “They’d have fewer concerns about shooting back in that case.”

Rani nodded in irritation.  “However it works,” she asked, “can you duplicate the system?”

Jameson hesitated.  “Yes and no,” he admitted.  “We ... we don’t have the technical skill yet to ... to make the system actually work.”

“But you know how it works,” Paula protested.

“The Commonwealth Navy has effectively designed its own realspace drive,” Jameson said, flatly.  “Their drive units are considerably more flexible - more innovative - than anything the Imperial Navy ever designed, let alone put into production.  I do not believe that we can rebuild a standard drive unit to project a force field, not without tearing the whole thing apart and rebuilding it from scratch.  We are working on designing our own drive system, but it will take months to work out the bugs and put it into production.”

Rani ground her teeth, but she couldn't say she was surprised.  The Imperial Navy had simplified everything over the last three hundred years, ever since technological advancement had come to a halt.  Most starship engineers really did nothing more than removing a broken component and replacing it with something new, if - of course - there happened to be one in stock.  And God help the crew if the automated diagnostic system happened to fail.  The components were over-engineered - they had to be - but they couldn't be repaired.  A starship that ran out of spare parts was doomed.

And training up better engineers would take more time than we have, she thought.  They’d have to be taught how to think first.

She pushed her frustration aside.  Taking it out on Jameson would feel good, but it would be cruel and ultimately worthless.  It certainly wouldn't get her anywhere.  She’d learnt - the hard way - just how much damage a single yes-man could do.  If the Grand Senators had learned that lesson, she suspected, the Empire might not have collapsed.  

“However, we did come up with something else,” Jameson added.  “Actually, two other technological surprises.  Both of them are built on missile drive systems.”

He altered the display, showing a pair of modified missiles.  “It’s actually easier to fiddle with a missile drive unit,” he explained.  “The drives are cruder and considerably overpowered, if only because they’re not expected to last very long.  Their additional power reserves gives them a chance to reformat their drive fields before burn-out.”

Rani nodded, impatiently.  “And you believe we can use this?”

“We can,” Jameson confirmed.  He held out a datapad.  “They may not be enough to give us a decisive advantage, Admiral, but they will give the Commonwealth a fright.”

“I hope so,” Rani said.

She sighed, inwardly, as she scanned the datapad.  Technological development proceeded in fits and starts, it seemed.  There was nothing to be gained by threatening the researchers with dire punishments if they failed to produce.  Hell, they couldn't be blamed for their problems.  The Empire had abandoned research and development centuries ago.  Rediscovering the scientific method alone had taken longer than she cared to think about.  

And each research project costs, even if it fails, she thought, sourly.  They’re drains we cannot afford.

She looked up at him, feeling a flicker of hope.  If he was right, if the technology actually worked, she might just have a chance.

“These weapons,” she said.  It was hard to keep the excitement out of her voice.  “How quickly can they be produced?”

“We can modify existing stockpiles of missiles within a couple of weeks,” Jameson said.  “I believe the finalised version, once we start churning them out of the industrial nodes, will be a great deal neater, but ...”

Rani forced herself to calm down.  They hadn't discovered a silver bullet, even if the missiles worked as advertised.  And they might not.  She had to keep that in mind, no matter how excited she was.  But ...

“Start adapting a number of missiles,” she ordered, shortly.  She didn't have time to be too careful.  “And then prepare briefing notes for my officers.”

“Of course, Admiral,” Jameson said.

And if these weapons do turn the tide, Rani thought, I can deal with my enemies here at leisure.

Chapter Two

“Edward,” Gaby Cracker said.  She sounded tired, very tired.  “This is your son.”

Ed could hardly breathe as she held out a bundle of cloth.  A tiny face peered out, blue eyes flickering from side to side.  He took it, as gingerly as he would hold a live hand grenade, and stared down at the wisp of dark hair.  Douglas Bainbridge Stalker was small, so small that it seemed impossible he would grow into a young man.  The baby was tiny, yet perfect.  He was the most beautiful thing Ed had ever seen.

He held the baby in one hand and gently pressed his finger against the baby’s palm.  A moment later, the baby’s fingers curved around his.  Ed felt a ... a protectiveness he’d never felt before, even back when he’d been trapped in the Undercity.  He knew, at that moment, that he would do anything for the child, anything at all.  He’d be a better father than his father had ever been.

You won’t lack for anything, he promised the tiny newborn.  The baby smiled back at him, turning his head very slightly.  And you will be protected from the world.

He passed the baby back to Gaby, who put it to her breast.  “The doctors say he’s a healthy child,” she said.  “No genetic problems or birth defects.”

Ed nodded, slumping in relief.  Birth defects were alarmingly common on Earth, a result of the polluted environment and short-term genetic manipulation.  He’d seen children who’d died before they reached their first birthday, just because they needed medical support to survive; he’d seen older children who’d been mocked, beaten or killed just for being different.  He’d feared the worst for his son, even though Douglas had been born on Avalon with the very best of medical care.  A time bomb lurking in his genetic code might have exploded when his son was born.

“That’s good,” he said.  He met her eyes.  “I’m sorry I wasn't there ...”

“We knew it was a possibility,” Gaby said.  She’d grown up amongst insurgents.  She knew the demands war could put on a person’s time.  “I don’t blame you.”

“I blame myself,” Ed admitted.  A father should watch the birth.  “I should have been there.”

Gaby reached out and squeezed his hand.  “It wasn't your fault,” she said.  Her lips curved into a smile.  “And you came home victorious.”

Ed sighed.  “At a steep price,” he said.  “Too many people will never come home at all.”

He sobered.  Avalon was celebrating - he’d passed a dozen parties on his way to the hospital - but the funerals would start soon enough.  Thousands of young men would never come home, never even be buried on their native soil.  Too many bodies had simply been dumped into mass graves, following the final battle and surrender on Corinthian.  Maybe they’d be exhumed, once the war was over; their remains logged and identified, then transported back to their homeworlds.  Or maybe their families would never have closure, never know for sure what had happened to their young men.  War always came with a steep cost.  Too many politicians had forgotten that, over the last three thousand years.

They won’t forget again, he promised himself.  Military experience is practically an unspoken requirement for political office here.

He forced himself to look at the child.  “Did you ... did you name him properly?”

“As we agreed,” Gaby said.

Ed allowed himself a moment of relief.  It was traditional, on Avalon, to name children after dead parents and grandparents.  She’d been a little surprised when Ed had asked to name their son after his first Drill Instructor instead of his biological father, but she’d gone along with it.  Ed had been relieved.  His real father was a mystery, one of several possible names.  His mother had never cared which of her affairs had resulted in pregnancy.  Ed didn't know who had fathered him and didn't really care.  The asshole certainly hadn't stuck around after the deed to bring up his young son.  

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

Gaby laughed. “Just remember you’re changing him for the next few weeks,” she said.  She sounded tired, again.  “He needs to be changed at least ten times a day.”

Ed gave her a long look.  Gaby had always been beautiful to him; a redheaded woman who’d been raised on a farm and then in a series of insurgent camps, strong enough to fight and smart enough to understand reality.  And diplomatic too, diplomatic enough to convince the Crackers not to continue the war when they were getting most of what they wanted, then to convince a number of other worlds to join the Commonwealth ...

And yet, she looked tired and worn.

“I will,” he promised.  “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Gaby said.  She shot him a mischievous glance.  “You do realise that women have been giving birth for hundreds of thousands of years?”

Her tired smile widened.  “The doctors say that everything went as well as could be expected,” she added.  “I’m tired, but ... otherwise, everything is fine.  I should be fit to return to work by the end of the week.”

Ed’s eyes narrowed.  “Are you going to?”

“I promised I would see out my term,” Gaby said.  “And oversee the next set of elections.  A couple of peace parties have been gaining ground over the last few months, mainly on the grounds that we can come to terms with Wolfbane.  I don’t want to let them get too entrenched.”

She sighed.  “We might be able to come to terms with a decent government, but there’s no reason to believe that Wolfbane will give us good terms,” she added.  “They’ll be more likely to use the peace as a chance to prepare for the next war.”

Ed nodded in grim agreement.  Neither Governor Brown’s corporate state nor Admiral Singh’s military dictatorship could co-exist with the Commonwealth.  The Commonwealth’s technological advances, if nothing else, would practically guarantee a renewed war sooner rather than later.  Governor Brown’s backing, according to the debriefings, had depended on keeping the corporations happy, which meant keeping down the competition.  Advanced technology would undermine their dominance quicker than open war.

And Admiral Singh has the same problem, he thought.  This is not a dispute that can be solved through peace talks and minor concessions.

“Peace,” he said.  Douglas Bainbridge - the original Douglas Bainbridge - had been fond of pointing out the absurdity of any number of peace agreements that rarely lasted long enough to matter.  “A period of cheating between periods of fighting.”

“A saying that dates all the way back to pre-space days,” Gaby said.  She’d read a great deal of political theory since the end of the insurgency, although she’d complained at the time that none of it seemed to be written by anyone with genuine experience.  “We have to end the war on decent terms.”

“I have an idea for that,” Ed said.  He looked down at Douglas.  The baby had gone to sleep, nestled against Gaby’s breast.  “But we can discuss it later.”

“We will,” Gaby agreed.  She adjusted her position, slightly.  “I am looking forward to walking around without a pregnant belly, even if I do keep threatening to topple over.”

“Once the doctors release you, you can go straight home,” Ed said.  “But not until then.”

Gaby stuck out her tongue.  “This from the person who sneaked out of a hospital bed and climbed out the window to escape the doctors.”

“Said person was also deafened by his CO and then ordered back to bed,” Ed said.  He’d been injured before, more times than he cared to think about, but he’d never liked staying in hospital.  The doctors had always struck him as being absurdly careful.  He’d known he was fine, damn it!  “You’re a little more fragile.”

“Just you wait,” Gaby said, rudely.  “I’ll show you just how fragile I am.”

Ed sighed as he sat down on the bed.  He wanted - he needed - to keep her safe.  She was his lover, the mother of his child ... he didn’t want her to come to any harm.  He wanted to protect her from everything, even herself.  And yet, he knew Gaby would hate him if he tried to wrap her in cotton wool.  She’d been fighting in an insurgency since she’d turned twelve, while Ed himself had still been trapped in the Undercity until he reached sixteen.  The young Gaby would have laughed at the young Ed ...

Or regarded him as a brutal barbarian, Ed thought.  He’d grown up in the Undercity ... and he’d never realised, not until he went through Boot Camp, just how many of its attitudes he’d imbibed.  The distance between him and the thugs he’d thrashed, during his sole visit to the Undercity after Boot Camp, wasn't as big as he liked to think.  Gaby did far more with her childhood than I ever did with mine.

He looked at the baby and felt another surge of protectiveness.  Douglas would have every advantage Ed could get for him, whatever it took.  He’d grow up on a farm, where he would learn to work from a very early age; he’d be taught to fight, to defend himself and others ... he’d be taught to read and write and think for himself.  He’d have all the advantages that Ed had been denied, thirty-seven years ago.  And he would never have to look into the darkness and make the choice between becoming victim or victimiser.

“You can't start dressing him in BDUs yet,” Gaby said, wryly.  “He’s barely a week old.”

Ed smiled back at her.  “Am I that transparent?”

“Just a little,” Gaby said.  “What father doesn’t want his son to follow in his footsteps?”

Mine, Ed thought.  The bastard might not even know he had a son.

He looked away, feeling oddly lost.  His father was a mystery.  There was no way to know, particularly now Earth was dead, who his father had been, let alone if he had survived long enough to watch the planet die.  Ed was sure - fairly sure - that he had never followed in his father’s footsteps.  The Marine Corps - Douglas Bainbridge and his fellow Drill Instructors - had been his real parents.  He’d followed in their footsteps, not those left by his biological father.  In the end, God alone knew who his father had been.

“I’ll be happy, as long as he is a honourable man,” he said, finally.  Honour - and trust - had been in short supply in the Undercity.  It still surprised him, somehow, at just how strongly trust pervaded the marines.  But then, anyone who broke trust would be lucky if they merely got dishonourably discharged and kicked out.  “And you won’t let him be anything else.”

“I’ll be setting the best example possible by resigning at the end of my term,” Gaby agreed, sardonically.  “And I’ll be glad to retire.”

“Not for long,” Ed predicted.  “You’ll want to go back to work soon enough.”

“My father’s farm is practically dead,” Gaby said.  “I want to restore it to life.”

Ed nodded in agreement.  The farm had been seized after the end of the first Cracker Rebellion, but its new owners had never done anything with it.  They’d feared, probably correctly, that their neighbours would turn on them.  Gaby had taken him there once, after the end of the insurgency.  The farm had been an overgrown ruin - the farmhouse had been damaged by the elements - but it still looked better than the Undercity.  But then, the Slaughterhouse had looked better than the Undercity.

Of course it did, he thought.  The bar wasn't set very high.

“I’m sure Douglas will like it,” he said.  “A farm will be a very good place to grow up.”

“That’s because you’ve never grown up on one,” Gaby said.  “It has its advantages and disadvantages.”

She met his eyes.  “Are you going to join me?”

Ed hesitated.  He’d never really anticipated leaving the Marine Corps.  The Corps had given him a life, one he didn't intend to waste.  He’d always expected that he would eventually be retired from active duty and reassigned to the Slaughterhouse, where he would spend the rest of his days teaching new recruits how to avoid his mistakes.  Assuming, of course, that he survived.  The risk of a violent death had overshadowed his life from the moment his mother had brought him into the world.

And yet ... he had a son now.  He couldn't just leave his son, could he?  How many boys in the Undercity might have been saved, if they’d had a strong male figure to guide them as they grew into adulthood?  How many little barbarians would have been kept from turning into monsters, if they’d had someone to look up to?  Douglas was his son, not a random child ... Ed had a duty to him, even if his own father had forsaken it.  He couldn't go off on a deployment that might last months, if not years ...

But other families had the same problem, he thought.  They coped, didn't they?

“I should,” he said.  

Gaby touched his hand.  “Make your choice,” she said.  “But stick to it, whatever it is.”

Ed nodded.  He loved the corps.  It was his family.  And yet, he had another family now.

Gaby can’t restore the farm on her own, he thought.  She’ll need help.

He’d never really imagined living on a farm, even though marines joked all the time about buying farms.  Hell, retired marines often took land packages from colonial development consortiums, using their military experience to support their new homeworlds.  But this was different.  He was more than just a simple rifleman.  He was the uniformed commander of the Commonwealth’s armed forces.  He was ...

And we need to know if they can survive without me, he thought.  He’d worked hard to avoid the problems that had bedevilled the Empire in its final years, but the only way to know if he’d succeeded was to take a step back and see what happened.  And if it doesn't work, we’ll have time to fix it.

He swallowed.  “When the war is over,” he said, unable to escape the sense that he was about to jump into the unknown, “I’ll go on detached duty.”

Gaby leaned forward.  “Be very sure,” she said.  “I don’t want you to resent it.”

“We’ll see,” Ed said.  He liked the military life.  But ... he had a son to raise.  “I can always reapply when Douglas reaches adulthood.”

“Yeah,” Gaby said.  She tapped her belly.  “By then, he may have some brothers and sisters too.”

Ed nodded, ruefully.  He’d had four siblings and a single mother, all crammed together in an apartment barely large enough for two grown men.  The sheer lack of privacy, of space, had threatened to drive him mad.  He’d certainly never considered having more than one child, particularly when there were no benefits for growing families.  But Avalon had plenty of room.  A farmhouse large enough to house ten kids - to give each kid a room larger than his apartment on Earth - wouldn't cost that much.  And the kids would be safe ...

This isn't Earth, he thought.  Dangerous criminals are not coddled here.

“After the war,” he said.  He took a breath.  “If we win, of course.”

“If we lose, we’ll just have to launch another insurgency,” Gaby said.

Her voice was casual.  But Ed knew it wouldn't be easy.  Admiral Singh would be a more dangerous opponent than the Civil Guard or someone who wanted to keep the planet reasonably intact.  She might just decide to scorch Avalon clean of life as a drastic example to everyone else.  Why not?  Obliterating all the advanced technology - and all the workers who produced it - might just work in her favour.  She’d certainly be in a position to control how the new technology flowed into galactic society.

And if she wins the war, there will be no one left to extract revenge, Ed thought.  The Empire had shied away from mass planetary bombardment, while Wolfbane knew that the Commonwealth would retaliate in kind for any such attack.  But if the Commonwealth lost the war, Admiral Singh would have a free hand.  Everyone will be too cowed to fight back.

There was a knock at the door.  “Come!”

He looked up as Command Sergeant Gwendolyn Patterson entered the room.  “Colonel,” she said.  “The remaining troops have been off-loaded and given liberty for the next two days.”

Ed nodded.  The troops - the survivors, his thoughts mocked him - would have a good time of it.  None of them, even the ones who hadn't seen direct action, would have to pay for a drink for the next few days.  They’d certainly have no trouble getting laid.  But then, they’d had very little to celebrate over the last year or so.  Corinthian was the first unambiguous victory the Commonwealth had enjoyed since the war had begun.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said.

Gwendolyn looked at the baby.  “He has your eyes, sir.”

Ed eyed her, suspiciously.  In anyone else, he would have suspected flattery.  Douglas’s baby eyes didn't look anything like his.  And yet, Gwendolyn was not one to flatter anyone.  She had never hesitated to tell him when he was on the verge of doing something stupid, particularly after they’d been cut off from the Empire.  He’d learned to value it as he’d grown into his role.

“Thank you,” he said, resisting the urge to suggest that she have her eyes checked.  “Did the Council have anything to say?”

“You’re expected to give a preliminary briefing in two days,” Gwendolyn said.  “They wanted to summon you earlier, but I pointed out that you were meeting your baby for the first time.”

“Very good,” Ed said.  

He grinned at Gaby.  “Order the Strategic Planning Cell to be ready for a meeting in three days,” he added.  “We have an operation to plan.”

Chapter Three

“It’s hard to imagine the colonel having a baby,” Brigadier Jasmine Yamane said, as she walked towards the command complex.  “He ... he never seemed to have any life outside the military.”

Emmanuel Alves gave her a sidelong look.  “I imagine he would have needed some pretty odd modifications to carry and bear a child,” he said.  “Inserting a womb into his body would be tricky ...”

Jasmine elbowed him.  “You know what I mean,” she said.  “It’s a change in his life.”

“It happens all the time,” Emmanuel countered.  “People have babies; the babies grow into children and then adults and then the whole cycle repeats itself.  And then people grow old and die.”

“And end up as worm food,” Jasmine said.  She’d noted, in her will, that she wanted to be buried on her homeworld, but she knew that might not be possible.  Her homeworld was lost somewhere in the darkness that had fallen over the Empire.  “I still can't quite get my head round it.”

Emmanuel looked at her.  “Do you want children of your own?”

Jasmine hesitated.  In truth, she’d never really given it much thought.  She’d had eggs removed and preserved when she’d entered the Slaughterhouse, just in case something happened to render her sterile, even though she’d assumed that her sisters would bring the next generation into the world.  And yet ... the Slaughterhouse was gone, if reports were to be believed.  Her frozen eggs might have been destroyed or lost forever.  

And my sisters might be gone too, she thought.  I might be the last of my family.

“I don’t know,” she said.  She made a mental note to have more eggs removed, if it was still possible.  Some of the enhancement treatments she’d had over the years might have damaged her reproductive system.  “Pregnancy does tend to put an end to a female marine’s career.”

“I suppose,” Emmanuel agreed.  “But you could always hire a surrogate or use an artificial womb.”

“I could,” Jasmine agreed.  Artificial wombs were rare, outside High Society.  Or at least they had been rare.  Now, she supposed the Commonwealth could put them into mass production if it wished.  “Or I could give up on the idea altogether.”

“Adopt a few orphans,” Emmanuel teased.  “You’d have the children without doing the work.”

“Prat,” Jasmine said.

It wasn't a pleasant thought.  The insurgency had created hundreds - perhaps thousands - of orphans, some of which had never found homes.  God knew the former government hadn't had any real interest in helping the poor children, although some of the oldest had been sent out to various farms as indentured labour.  They’d deserted after the end of the war, claiming all kinds of abuse.  Far too many cases were still working their way through the courts.  

She kept her face expressionless as they reached the guards on the door, who scanned and searched them before allowing them to step into the entrance.  The guards looked professional enough, she decided, although they’d be foolish to show any signs of unprofessional behaviour on Castle Rock.  Jasmine and most of the other guests had a duty to report careless or unprofessional guards, particularly when they were posted outside the most sensitive buildings on the island.  No one, absolutely no one, had a right to enter without permission.  The guards would have arrested her at once if she hadn't been on the guest list.

The inner door opened, revealing a long corridor leading to a small briefing room.  Jasmine took a breath, tasting the faint scent of oily newness in the air, then led the way down to the entrance.  Colonel Stalker, Command Sergeant Gwendolyn Patterson, General Crichton Mathis, Colonel Kitty Stevenson, Commodore Mandy Caesius and a handful of others she didn't recognise were seated around a table, chatting quietly as they waited for the other guests.  Jasmine cursed herself under her breath as she took her seat.  Avalon wasn't as ultra-formal as Earth, thankfully, but being the last to arrive rarely looked good.  People would notice, even though the meeting wasn’t due to start for another five minutes.

She nodded to Mandy, who smiled back at her.  The young redheaded girl had advanced by leaps and bounds since they’d first met, moving into space and climbing into command rank with nary a bump.  It was the sort of advancement that would have been flat-out impossible in the Empire - unless one had excellent connections - but now, merit played a far greater role in determining who was promoted.  Jasmine couldn't help hoping that it stayed that way, particularly as memories of the Empire faded.  The younger generation might not understand just how easy it would be to fall into the trap that had doomed the Empire.

“Seal the room,” Colonel Stalker ordered.  He cleared his throat.  “It is my duty to remind you that this meeting is classified top secret.  Security protocols are now in effect.  You may not discuss it with anyone without prior permission from myself.  If anyone has any objection to invoking the security protocols” - his gaze lingered on Emmanuel for a long moment - “please leave the room now.”

There was a long pause.  Jasmine kept her expression under tight control.  Emmanuel had proved himself, time and time again, but she knew that old habits die hard.  Reporters were the natural enemy, as far as the military was concerned.  The Empire’s reporters had been more interested in scoops than anything else, sometimes even putting troops in danger or accepting enemy propaganda without question just to make sure they were the first to publish.  Emmanuel was only tolerated because he had proved himself.  Even then ...

The Colonel will want full disclosure, eventually, she thought.  And Emmanuel will be the one who’ll write the story.

“Very good,” Colonel Stalker said.  He glanced at Colonel Kitty Stevenson.  “Kitty?”

Kitty tapped a switch, displaying a familiar starchart.  Jasmine stared at it, comparing to the one she’d seen two days ago.  Nothing seemed to have changed, as far as she could tell; the enemy’s advance seemed to have been stalled.  But she knew, better than any civilian, that the map could easily mislead the unwary eye.  Anything could have happened out amongst the stars and no one would know, until the courier boat arrived.  The green stars along the front might have been invaded and occupied by now.  There was no way to be entirely sure.

“The current state of play,” Kitty said.  She’d lost most of her accent, Jasmine noted, but traces of Earth still shone through her speech.  “As of the last set of reports, Wolfbane has stopped all offensive operations beyond a handful of raids directed at our industrial nodes and convoys along the front line.  Our own raiders have reported that the enemy appears to have assumed a defensive pose, although - naturally - we’re not sure how long this will last.”

“And it could have finished by now,” General Crichton Mathis inserted.

“Yes, sir,” Kitty agreed.  

“Intelligence has been doing its best to assess what we’ve been told by defectors and POWs since the Battle of Corinthian,” she continued.  “Our current conclusion is that Admiral Singh’s position has been weakened by the defeat, although we have no way to know how this particular crisis will be resolved.  Obviously, our ideal solution would be an enemy civil war that weakens them badly, but we cannot be sure that this will happen.  Given the ideological threat we represent to Wolfbane, it is quite possible that the corporations will rally behind Admiral Singh.  They may feel that she is a lesser threat in the long term.”

Jasmine nodded, curtly.  She’d never met Admiral Singh, not face to face, but she had a certain admiration for her opponent.  The woman had built an empire of her own and, when she’d lost it, had somehow managed to get control of another.  Her record was sparse, but Jasmine had enough practice at reading between the lines to suspect that Admiral Singh had made powerful enemies.  They hadn't been powerful enough to keep her down.

“Our overall assessment is that Wolfbane will be unable or unwilling to resume the offensive for at least six months,” Kitty concluded.  “They will, if nothing else, have to come to terms with the scale of the defeat.  It will not be easy for them, particularly as we’ve been slipping our own propaganda into their planetary computer networks.  They will not be able to conceal upwards of a hundred thousand soldiers dead or captured on Corinthian.”

“There's never been anything to suggest that Singh worries about casualties,” Mandy said, quietly.

“Her subordinates will,” Kitty countered.  “They’ll certainly have to rebuild the shattered or destroyed military units before they can resume the offensive.”

“Unless they decide to bypass planetary targets and resume their drive on Avalon,” Mathis put in.  “They don’t have to crush resistance to the last man.”

Jasmine was inclined to agree, but she suspected that Admiral Singh wouldn’t.  Resistance, even a low-level insurgency, looked bad, even when it was strategically valueless.  Someone like Colonel Stalker - an experienced military officer - might ignore it, but someone without such experience might insist that all resistance be smashed flat.  Admiral Singh couldn't afford to give up an occupied world, even when it was militarily useless, for fear of appearing weak.  Her enemies wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of it.

“Perhaps,” Colonel Stalker said.  “Kitty, if you will continue ...?”

Kitty nodded.  “We believe that we will have a brief window of opportunity to take the offensive ourselves,” she said.  “Despite our recent victory - and technological development - they still have a fairly major advantage.  However, if we take the offensive now, we will rock them back on their heels and hopefully crack their foundations.”

“Risky,” Mathis observed.

“Correct,” Colonel Stalker said.  “This one is for all the marbles.”

Kitty sat down.  Colonel Stalker rose, adjusting the display.  Jasmine leaned forward, despite herself.  Normally, a junior officer would make the presentation.  A senior officer doing the legwork meant that matters had already been decided.  And that meant ...

“Our window of opportunity is narrower than it seems,” Colonel Stalker said.  “They do, as Kitty said, still have a fairly major military advantage.  And, on the other hand, they will have time to duplicate our new weapons and put them into mass production.  We’ve certainly given them enough incentive to try!”

“Each of our ships is worth two of theirs,” Mandy protested.

“Yes, but they have three ships for every one of ours,” Colonel Stalker pointed out.  He sounded oddly amused.  “At the same time, however, they do have weaknesses.  Their society is held together by force.  Wolfbane grabbed every star within a hundred light years as soon as Governor Brown died and just kept expanding.  If the defectors are to be believed, most of those worlds are either rebellious or a drain on their resources.”

“Meridian certainly was,” Jasmine agreed.  The Wolves had put a POW camp on the first-stage colony world, but little else.  There hadn't been much point.  Meridian simply hadn't had anything worth looting.  They’d conscripted a handful of people with technical skills, but otherwise they'd simply left the planet alone.  “Do you think we could convince the other worlds to rise in revolt?”

“They would if Wolfbane itself took a blow,” Colonel Stalker said.

He adjusted the display, focusing on two stars.  “According to our last intelligence analysis, the Wolves have been running military reinforcements and supply convoys through Titlark,” he said.  “They built the system up pretty heavily before the start of the war, then used it as the launching point for their first major offenses.  Five worlds were invaded directly from Titlark during the opening hours of the war.”

“I remember,” Jasmine muttered.  She’d been on Thule, in command of the CEF, when it had fallen.  The Wolves hadn't treated their POWs that badly - she’d been taught to expect worse from terrorists and insurgents - but it had still been humiliating.  “Do you think we can take the system?”

“I believe we can devastate the orbital defences and smash their supply depots,” Colonel Stalker said.  “If nothing else, that will force them to rethink their deployments and concentrate on protecting their rear areas.  We might even have a chance to take a shot at a number of convoys when they come into the system, all fat and happy.  However, this is merely the first step in my plan.”

He altered the display again, focusing on a second star.  Jasmine caught her breath as she realised he was pointing at Wolfbane itself.

“We have a brief window of opportunity,” Colonel Stalker said.  “I mean to strike directly at Wolfbane before they can react.”

General Mathis coughed.  “I was under the impression that such deep-strike operations were inherently dangerous.”

“They are,” Mandy confirmed.  “However, if we were careful, we would be able to withdraw without being trapped and destroyed.”

“We might also spark off an uprising,” Colonel Stalker said.  “If Admiral Singh is an unpopular ruler, she might be unseated if we offer reasonable peace terms.  Even if she wasn't removed from office, we could do a great deal of damage to the system’s industrial base and cripple the Wolves.  They might drive us out of the system and still lose the war.”

Jasmine considered it for a long moment.  She was no expert on naval warfare, but she understood the basics.  The sheer audacity of the operation would work in its favour - Admiral Singh, a classically-trained naval officer, wouldn't expect Colonel Stalker to gamble everything on one roll of the dice.  And yet, they would be gambling everything.  There was no way to avoid the simple fact that losing so many ships would be disastrous, particularly if the Wolves retained most of their mobile forces.  Admiral Singh would have no choice, but to launch an immediate counterattack.  It might win them the war.

“It would be risky,” Kitty said.  “But it would also bring home to the corporations just how dangerous the universe has become.”

“Perhaps,” Jasmine said.  She saw the logic.  The giant corporations were disconnected from the real world.  Governor Brown had slanted the odds in their favour.  Hell, the Grand Senate had slanted the odds in their favour.  Giving their leaders a shock - enemy warships materialising in their system - might bring them to the discussion table.  “It might also convince them that they have to fight to the death.”

“Not if it was unprofitable,” Kitty countered.  

“We will plan two separate operations,” Colonel Stalker said.  “Operation Counter Punch will be officially aimed at Thule.  If anything leaks out ... well, Thule is a logical target.  We did promise to return, after all.  Unofficially, we'll be bypassing Thule and heading straight for Titlark.  We’ll punch out the defences, then - officially - fade back into the Commonwealth.

“Operation Home Run will take us all the way to Wolfbane,” he added.  “If ... if we lose too many ships during Counter Punch, we’ll cancel that part of the operation and raid a number of smaller enemy targets instead.  If not ... then we’ll go all the way.

“I shouldn't have to remind you that it is of the utmost importance that our true targets remain classified.  The enemy must not have any warning of our intended destinations.  We will be using our double-agents to try to convince them of our planned targets, but after Corinthian they may not believe our agents are actually on their side.”

Jasmine had to smile, despite her concerns.  She disliked intelligence operations, although she’d handled them a couple of times.  It was a shadowy world, where treachery and betrayal was as commonplace as hot air.  No one would believe a double-agent who’d misled them, even if it was an accident.  The Wolves would be wise to assume that their agents had been compromised from the beginning.  Admiral Singh would certainly refuse to listen to anyone who told her the truth.

And our plans are chancy, she thought, grimly.  She was no stranger to the torrent of information that flowed into listening ears, ranging from certain truths to absurd rumours and utter nonsense.  Admiral Singh might dismiss any reports on those grounds alone.

Mathis coughed.  “Am I to assume that the decision has already been taken?”

“It has,” Colonel Stalker said.  His voice was very calm.  “The War Cabinet met last night.”

Jasmine glanced at Emmanuel.  He looked as surprised as she felt.  The War Cabinet normally took longer, much longer, to come to a decision.  Avalon and the Commonwealth was generally better at keeping secrets than the Grand Senate - it helped that most of the representatives had seen war themselves - but there had been leaks.  She wondered, suddenly, if the colonel had told them the full story.  The representatives might not have been told about Home Run.  

And if the colonel didn't tell them, she thought, do they have a right to know?

“We will plan the operation over the next few days,” Colonel Stalker said.  “Tomorrow, we’ll break into planning teams to focus on individual sections of the offensive.  In particular, we’ll be looking for ways to maximise our advantages and offset the enemy’s superior numbers.”

“Like an operation on the ground,” Jasmine said.  “Something designed to give them more than one threat at a time.”

“Correct,” Colonel Stalker said.  He smiled, humourlessly.  “We’ll be discussing that afterwards.”

He looked around the room.  “We cannot afford to go into this half-cocked,” he said.  “This operation - both operations - are risky.  We could lose everything.”

His voice hardened.  “But we are still on the verge of losing the war.  We have to take the offensive now, before it’s too late.  Singh will not make the same mistakes twice.  She will rebuild her forces, then use her superiority to steamroll us into the ground.  And that will be the end.”

Jasmine nodded.  The colonel was right.

“Grab some coffee,” Colonel Stalker added.  “It’s going to be a long day.”

Chapter Four

It was a nice prison, General Mark Haverford considered.  But it was a prison all the same.

The Commonwealth hadn’t treated him badly.  He had a small apartment to himself and a reasonable semblance of privacy, something he hadn't expected when he’d surrendered and offered to defect.  The Empire had rarely rewarded defectors, even when they had saved thousands of lives.  But he’d also been questioned extensively by trained interrogators, men and women who had gone over every last detail of his testimony in the hopes of catching him in a lie.  It was unpleasant and painful and - even though he knew it needed to be done - humiliating.

But it could be worse, he thought.  I could be in a camp.

He snorted at the thought.  Most of the POWs would have gone into camps, either on Corinthian or somewhere deeper into the Commonwealth.  The former would have an uncomfortable time of it, after the planet had been devastated by the fighting.  He had no doubt the locals would do everything in their power to make the POWs miserable.  The Commonwealth might have promised to treat the POWs well, but Corinthian hadn't made any such promises.  Mark doubted the Commonwealth could make them see reason.

And if they get liberated, they won't be blamed for being captured, he reminded himself.  I won’t be so lucky if Admiral Singh catches me after I defected.

He looked up from his chair as the door opened, revealing Colonel Stalker and Brigadier Jasmine Yamane.  He vaguely recalled meeting Jasmine once, after the Fall of Thule; she’d never made any attempt to defect, even though she’d had the chance.  Instead, she’d gone straight into a POW camp and escaped through grit, determination and a certain amount of luck.  She was impressive, Mark had to admit.  Just looking at her made him think of a tiger on the prowl.

“General,” Colonel Stalker said.  “We need to talk to you.”

“Of course,” Mark said, welcomingly.  It wasn't as if he was in any position to avoid the conversation.  He’d been warned, more than once, that his position depended on being completely open with his interrogators.  “Please, take a seat.  Tea or coffee?”

“Neither, please,” Colonel Stalker said.  “I trust that the accommodations are to your liking?”

“They could be worse,” Mark said.  He watched them sit, noting the way they moved.  Their training shone through, no matter how much they might try to hide it.  There wasn't a single wasted movement.  “They could be better too, but ...”

He shrugged.  “You’re not the usual interrogators,” he said, as he leaned back into his comfortable chair.  “Am I to assume that certain decisions about the future have been made?”

Colonel Stalker met his eyes.  “The last time we met, you told me that Admiral Singh had to be stopped,” he said.  “You’ve repeated that statement again and again, every time you were interrogated.  Is that still true?”

“Yes,” Mark said, flatly.

“I see,” Colonel Stalker said.  “You also told me that there was a very good chance of a civil war breaking out on Wolfbane.”

“I did,” Mark confirmed.  There was no point in trying to hide it.  The interrogators had wrung him dry, asking question after question until they had a fairly solid grip on everything he knew.  “Has one broken out?”

“If it has, we don’t know about it,” Colonel Stalker said.

Mark nodded.  It would take two months, at least, for a starship to travel from Wolfbane to Avalon.  Longer, perhaps, if the starship didn't follow a direct course.  The Commonwealth’s awareness of what was happening on Wolfbane was painfully out of date.  Admiral Singh might have fought and won - or lost - a civil war by now.  Mark had no way to know.  None of them did.

“I believe that it is only a matter of time,” Mark said.  “There are factions who will fight against her, now that she has suffered a defeat.”

“So you said,” Colonel Stalker reminded him.  “I read your debriefing notes very carefully, General.  You talked about industrialists and corporate leaders who might turn on her, as well as military officers.  Do you believe they might have already moved against her?”

Mark took a moment to formulate his thoughts.  “Governor Brown convinced them to back his government,” he said.  “Admiral Singh merely took over a structure he’d created.  But ... the prospect of losing everything will certainly concentrate a few minds.  They may consider that there is more to be gained by turning on her.”

“I see,” Colonel Stalker said.  “And how might we convince them of that?”

“You offer to respect their current positions,” Mark told him.  He allowed himself a tight smile.  “If they believe, rightly or wrongly, that you are going to break the corporations apart, they’ll remain united behind Admiral Singh.  Better the devil you know and all that jazz, Colonel.  They would sooner put up with kissing her ass than being brutally slaughtered.”

Jasmine leaned forward.  “You think they’d switch sides?”

“I think they’ll do whatever they consider to be in their own best interests,” Mark said.  He wondered, absently, why Jasmine was there.  Good cop, bad cop?  Or was something else going on here?  “On one hand, Admiral Singh has promised to back them - and she controls much of the military.  On the other hand, if Admiral Singh looks like a loser, they’ll switch sides just to preserve what they’ve built.”

“Which won’t be easy, because Admiral Singh still controls most of the military,” Colonel Stalker commented.  “Or do you believe that has changed?”

“I believe that most of the bigger corporations will have their own agents in place, within the military and planetary defences,” Mark said.  His lips thinned.  “Promoting officers because of powerful connections rather than competence was a problem even before Governor Brown met an untimely end.  I imagine Admiral Singh is currently doing everything in her power to limit their influence before it is too late.”

He leaned back in his chair.  “I don’t think you came here to tell me this personally,” he said, flatly.  “Everything I just told you could have been taken from the interrogation reports.  Why did you come here, now?”

Colonel Stalker studied him for a long moment, his eyes cold and hard.  Mark tried to look back at him, reminding himself - sharply - that Colonel Stalker had a long and distinguished record even before the Empire had collapsed.  He was no fool, nor was he inclined to tolerate someone playing games.  There were limits to how far Colonel Stalker could be pushed, Mark knew, before he decided to push back.

“We are dispatching a team to Wolfbane,” Colonel Stalker said, finally.  “Do you have any contacts who might be of service?”

Mark felt his heart leap.  “Some,” he said, carefully.  He didn’t want to overplay his hand.  “I believe, however, that it would be better if I came along.”

Colonel Stalker sounded oddly amused.  “You are aware of the risks?”

“Yes,” Mark said, flatly.  Admiral Singh might not know he had defected - he rather hoped she thought he was trapped in a POW camp somewhere - but she would not be pleased if her forces caught him on Wolfbane.  Merely passing through a basic checkpoint might turn into a nightmare if his DNA set off alarms.  “I understand the dangers.”

“And you’re prepared to help make contact with potential rebels?”  Jasmine asked.  “To betray your former leader?”

“Admiral Singh is mad,” Mark reminded her.  “She has to be removed.”

“And you’d be in position to carve out a place for yourself,” Colonel Stalker said.  “Do you think we would trust you with it?”

Mark looked back at him.  “I have never made any secret of my ambitions,” he reminded them.  “I will always regret never having risen to the highest ranks.  But I would settle for a peaceful life, one that doesn't include the risk of being executed for treason or any other charges that can be ginned up against me.”

It was true enough, he knew.  There was no chance he’d be allowed to build up a power base of his own, not on Wolfbane.  The industrialists might work with him - and the Commonwealth - but they wouldn't want to take the chance of creating another military dictator.  And the Commonwealth would certainly not allow it either.  He’d be happy enough if he had a place to live, somewhere where no one knew who he was.  Or who he had been.

Jasmine cocked her head.  “You think you could convince the factions to support you?”

“You’d have to make them a good offer,” Mark said.  “But yeah ... it could be done.”

“Perhaps,” Jasmine said.  “How would you advise us to get to Wolfbane?”

Mark considered it for a long moment.  Wolfbane was nowhere nearly as overpopulated as Earth had been, but there were still enough people within the system for constant monitoring to be almost impossible.  A skilled team could move around for quite some time without being detected.  And yet, passing through any of the bottlenecks - if they wanted to get down to the surface - would not be easy.  DNA recombination techniques had their limits.

“Freighter crews are closely monitored, when they hit the surface,” he said, after a long moment.  “We’d probably want to pose as immigrants, men who have technical skills the corporations can use.  Anyone with a certified qualification would be worth their weight in gold.  Once you get down to the surface, you’d just need to find someone who could hack the computers and get you an ID chip and everything else you need.”

He paused.  “Ideally, you’d want a paper trail they could follow, just in case,” he added.  “If you appeared to have come out of nowhere, you’d definitely raise a few eyebrows.”

It wasn't entirely true, he admitted privately.  A skilled technician - one with formal training and genuine experience - would be snapped up quickly, once he entered the job market.  The corporations were so desperate for trained manpower that they probably wouldn't look twice at anyone they needed.  But it should remind them - again - that they needed him.  His black market contacts were probably still there, unless they'd been picked up by the security forces and arrested.  But he was fairly sure they'd simply bribed their way out of trouble.

“So we might be dropped off on one world and take passage to Wolfbane from there,” Jasmine mused.  “We’ll be going over that in great detail.”

“Calomel, perhaps,” Mark said.  “They have quite a collection of freighters coming and going - and they’re not particularly supervised.”

“A curious oversight,” Colonel Stalker commented.

“It's the old problem,” Mark said.  “At what point do you start killing the goose that lays the golden eggs?”

He smiled, inwardly.  Governor Brown had grappled with the problem for years, long before he’d taken control of an entire sector.  Cracking down on unregistered freighters - and smugglers - was good for the corporations, but not always good for the economy.  People wanted what they wanted - and what they wanted, most of the time, was low prices.  The corporations might howl, but the independent freighters couldn't be stopped without crippling the economy.  Admiral Singh might want to drive them out of her territory, yet how could she do it without cutting her own throat?

“They’ll be very careful when we reach Wolfbane,” Jasmine said.

“I imagine they will,” Mark agreed.  “But we can probably get papers at Calomel that will get us through the gates.”

He looked at Colonel Stalker.  “When do we go?”

“When the time is right,” Colonel Stalker said.  “You will be informed.”

It was a non-answer.  Mark bit down on his annoyance.  Prisoner, defector or whatever, the Commonwealth wouldn't trust him with sensitive details.  He would have done the same himself, although that didn't stop him finding the whole thing irritating.  If they wanted him to go ... he shook his head, silently telling himself not to be silly.  He wasn't really in a position to bargain.

Colonel Stalker rose.  “Thank you for your time,” he said.  Jasmine rose too.  “We’ll follow up on this later.”

“Of course,” Mark said.  He stood.  “And thank you for coming.”

He watched them go, then sat back down, schooling his face into an unreadable mask.  He wasn't fool enough to assume the apartment wasn't monitored.  Going back to Wolfbane was a risk, a risk he didn’t want to assume.  He had no illusions about Admiral Singh - or about how he’d be treated, if he were caught.  His contacts might easily sell him out, if they’d decided to stick with Admiral Singh to the bitter end.  They couldn't be blind to the threat the Commonwealth posed to their long-term health, no matter how worrying they found their current military dictator.  It was quite possible that Mark would lead the Commonwealth team into a deadly trap.

And I wouldn't survive, he thought.  The Commonwealth would see him as a traitor - and Wolfbane, of course, would feel pretty much the same way.  Everyone would want me dead.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, feeling a pang of bitter regret.  Everything had seemed so simple, once upon a time.  Governor Brown had made him - and the rest of the planetary militia - feel as though they were finally doing something more useful than standing around looking pretty.  And then the war had started.  And then countless thousands of young men had walked to their deaths on Corinthian.  And then ...

Admiral Singh has to be stopped, he told himself, firmly.  Whatever happens afterwards doesn't matter.  She has to be stopped.

***
“An interesting man,” Colonel Stalker observed, once the door was shut.  “Do you trust him?”

Jasmine shook her head.  In her experience, the only people who could be trusted completely were marines.  Everyone else - soldiers, spacers, civilians - had a breaking point, a point beyond which they could not go.  Mark Haverford might be sincere when he talked about overthrowing Admiral Singh, but she didn't trust him.  He’d collapsed the moment she’d shoved her gun in his face and ordered him to surrender.

“He might make the difference between getting a team to Wolfbane and being intercepted in transit,” Colonel Stalker said.  “Can you work with him?”

“You want me to go,” Jasmine said.  It wasn't a question.  “It will be a challenge.”

“Yes, it will,” Colonel Stalker agreed.  “Do you want to go?”

Jasmine frowned.  She was the best-qualified officer for the job.  She’d been the one who had sneaked down to Corinthian and started an underground revolution that had eventually forced Admiral Singh to flee.  And she’d commanded military operations on Thule, escaped a POW camp and struck at Wolfbane itself, and carried out behind-the-lines operations on Corinthian that had weakened the invading forces as they advanced on the capital city.  By any reasonable standard, she was the only person who could be sent. And yet ...

“I’m the best choice,” she said, ducking the question.  In truth, she wasn't sure she wanted to go at all.  She knew just how lucky she’d been to escape Corinthian, the first time.  And she knew just what decisions she’d had to make to win her victory.  She felt, even though no one else seemed to agree, that she’d gone too far.  “I am the most experienced officer at your disposal.”

She sighed, inwardly.  She’d signed on the dotted line, once when she’d entered Boot Camp and again when she’d graduated from the Slaughterhouse.   She didn’t have a choice about where she was sent, not after she’d been given her Rifleman’s Tab.   She’d given up her freedoms when she’d joined the corps.  Even now ... a wise commander might hesitate to send her somewhere she really didn't want to go, but she was the best-qualified officer.  She was needed.

Colonel Stalker gave her a long look, then nodded.  “You can select your own team,” he said, seriously.  “Make sure they can back up whatever claims you put on the official paperwork - they’ll be tested.”

Jasmine nodded.  The Empire’s certification program had been a waste of time - insisting that hairdressers had an expensive piece of paperwork just made the bureaucrats look silly - but her team would need engineering and mechanical qualifications.  They would definitely be tested when they reached Wolfbane.  Luckily, there was no shortage of trained mechanics within the marines and their auxiliaries.  She might be better off focusing on the auxiliaries, if she thought she could trust them to handle it.  These days, with everyone doing everything in their power to make the Commonwealth work, the lines had blurred more than she cared to admit.

And we are running out of marines, she thought, grimly.  What will we do when we’re all dead?

Go to heaven or hell, her thoughts answered her.

“I’ll see to it,” she said, pushing the mocking thought aside.  She'd have to chat with Emmanuel, too.  There was no way he could come with her, not into the heart of enemy territory.  It wouldn't be their first separation, but they hadn't had much time together since they’d returned to Avalon.  “Colonel ... when do we leave?”

“As soon as possible,” Colonel Stalker said.  “That's why I didn't disband the task force when we returned.  We’re going to need it.”

“Mandy will need more ships,” Jasmine said.  She’d have to talk to Mandy too, if they had time.  “And a lot more firepower.”

“It’s on the way,” Colonel Stalker assured her.  He nodded back towards the closed door.  “You’ll have complete access to our friend in there.  Ask him anything, anything at all, that you think might be germane to the mission.  I’ll make sure intelligence knows to keep you in the loop too.”

And hope he isn't planning to betray us, Jasmine thought.  She disliked depending on anyone she didn't trust.  If we’re wrong, he’ll be in an excellent place to do us harm.

Chapter Five

“You do realise that this is politically risky?”

Ed nodded, looking down at his baby son.  “How bad is it going to be?”

Gaby shrugged as she leaned back on the sofa.  “It depends on the exact terms,” she said, dryly.  “Anything that smacks of letting Wolfbane get away with ... well, anything ... isn't going to go down well with the council, or the electorate at large.  On the other hand, an agreement that allows us and them to compete on even terms will probably be accepted.”

“We need to end the war,” Ed said.  He rocked his son from side to side, very gently.  “We could still lose.”

“Unless we come up with something new,” Gaby said.  She smiled, tiredly.  “I understand the logic, Ed.  The man in the street might not.”

Ed nodded.  The Commonwealth had never been designed for a war.  Its political structure was staggering, perhaps failing, under the strain of having to fight a long war.  The politicians, thankfully, had plenty of common sense - having to deal with reality had seen to that - but the stresses of the war were pulling them in different directions.  They just hadn't had the time to put the Commonwealth on a secure footing.

“If we have access to their markets, if we break their control over the worlds they’ve occupied, our long-term victory is assured,” Ed said.  “If they try to adapt to match us, they’ll have to make political changes; if they don’t, we will have a permanent advantage and their populations will grow restive.”

“But it will take time,” Gaby pointed out.  “Years, perhaps.”

Ed nodded.  There was no way to predict a technological improvement, let alone a breakthrough.  Researchers were looking at every idea that had been proposed and trying to determine what could be turned into useful hardware, but most of their concepts had turned into damp squibs.  It was possible that they’d find something tomorrow that would render the entire navy obsolete at a stroke ... and equally possible that they wouldn't manage to push the limits any further.  All he could do was keep throwing money into research programs and hope for the best.

Not that it has been that much of a failure, he thought.  We wouldn't have the force fields or the advanced missiles without it.

“I think we’re going to have to get used to the idea of things taking time,” he said.  It was a bitter thought.  “We’re operating on a greater scale now.”

He shook his head in annoyance.  He’d seen too many problems prolonged by political incompetence, too many insurgences and wars that could have been halted with an effective combination of the carrot and the stick.  The Cracker War had ended - quickly - because the marines had had the freedom to capitalise on their battlefield victory.  But Wolfbane was simply too large a target to be taken down by a single engagement, no matter how savage and costly.  The days when problems could be contained by the Imperial Navy were long gone.

“Then it’s time we got used to it,” Gaby said.  

She picked up the datapad.  “I’m pretty sure we can agree on a truce, followed by free trade and migration,” she said.  “As long as Admiral Singh’s successors don’t want to continue the war, I dare say everything else is negotiable.”

Ed hoped she was right.  Admiral Singh needed a victory, if the intelligence analysts were right.  She had to cement her position before some kindly soul decided to assassinate her and rid the universe of a dangerous menace.  But the corporations might not be much more inclined to be peaceful.  He’d met enough corporate officers to know they could be just as cold and heartless as the Grand Senate, more concerned with meeting their stockholders’ demands than ending wars on favourable terms.  God alone knew how many insurgencies had kept going because the locals refused to be exploited by interstellar corporations.

But this is on a bigger scale, he thought, sourly.  They will see us as dangerous competition.

“We won’t seek to occupy Wolfbane,” Ed said.  “We’ll just seek guarantees that the war will not resume in a hurry.”

Gaby looked up at him.  “And you’re sure you can keep them from rearming?”

Ed shrugged.  “There’s no way to be sure of anything,” he said.  “Yes, we can beat them in their own system; yes, we can do a great deal of damage to their infrastructure; no, we cannot guarantee that we can keep them from rebuilding their military.  But if we offer them a fairly decent short-term peace, they shouldn't want to resume the war until it’s too late.”

He allowed himself a cold smile.  The corporations wouldn't want to encourage their military to think for itself, not when they’d already had one military dictator.  Hell, they probably wouldn't even want to throw resources into an unproductive military.  Given five years, perhaps ten, the Commonwealth would have a decisive advantage if the war broke out again.  

And they probably won’t seek to restart the war unless they’re sure they can win, he thought, grimly.  They would lose everything if they restarted the war and lost.

“True enough,” Gaby said.

Douglas opened his mouth and started to cry.  Gaby took him and pressed the baby to her breast.  Ed watched, feeling an odd kind of helplessness.  He hadn't been able to make the baby fall quiet, no matter what he did.  Douglas was utterly dependent on his mother.  It seemed impossible to believe, somehow, that Douglas would grow into a little boy, then into a strong man.  The infant was tiny.

You were that size once, his thoughts pointed out.  And you grew up big and strong.

Sure, he answered, silently.  And how many babies never grew up on Earth.

He shuddered.  Earth had been a nightmare.  He’d known children who hadn't lived past their first decade, children he barely remembered amidst the horror of his life ... he couldn't even remember their names.  He felt a surge of protectiveness, mingled with guilt, as he saw the tiny form.  Part of him felt as though he’d brought a helpless child into a horrific world, even though he knew better.  Douglas would never have to grow up in a CityBlock, never have to fight for his life against older boys and predatory adults ... never have to compete with his parents and siblings for food.  Douglas would have a good life, Ed vowed.  Ed would do whatever it took to make sure Douglas had a good life.

Teach him how to defend himself, he thought, grimly.  And teach him honour.

He looked away, feeling another pang of guilt.  He’d thought those emotions were buried, locked away at the back of his mind.  He knew what he’d done to survive the Undercity, to try to stay alive long enough to escape.  The world had been divided into victims and victimisers and he’d preferred the latter to the former.  Maybe he hadn't been as bad as the drug lords or gangsters ...

Douglas will never have to make those choices, he told himself.  And he will never have to fight to survive.

Gaby cleared her throat.  “The next council meeting is going to be interesting.”

Ed glanced at her.  “Are you going to take Douglas with you?”

“I may have to,” Gaby said.  She looked down at her son.  “It’ll have to be done.”

“You could use a bottle,” Ed said, slowly.

“Breast-feeding is better,” Gaby said.  “And women have been doing it for thousands of years.”

Not on Earth, Ed thought.  

He sighed.  Women had been advised not to breast-feed on Earth, although he wasn't sure why.  Perhaps it was dangerous - traces of dangerous elements were very common on Earth - or perhaps it was just a cunning plan to force everyone to buy baby formula.  Or perhaps it was just a grim recognition that the two-legged predators infesting the Undercity would see a bare breast as an invitation.  But then, those bastards would see an unprotected woman as an invitation, whatever she was wearing.  Gaby had grown up with guns, she’d learned to shoot almost as soon as she could walk and talk.  His sisters in the Undercity had been disarmed and helpless.

“I know,” he said, slowly.

It bothered him.  And he didn't really know why it bothered him.

“Good,” Gaby said, sharply.  She met his eyes.  “I have to see out the rest of my term, whatever else happens.  And then I can retire gracefully.”

She smiled.  “Don't your fellow marines have this problem?”

“No,” Ed said.  Female marines had birth control implants.  It was unheard of for one of them to get pregnant on active duty.  If they wanted children, they had to go on detached duty.  It was a harsh rule, but necessary.  The Imperial Army and Navy had had a long-standing problem with crewwomen - even officers - getting pregnant on active duty.  “They don’t.”

Gaby’s lips twitched.  “Poor them.”

Ed raised his eyebrows.  “What?”

“They won’t know the feeling of being pregnant,” Gaby said.  “They won’t feel the baby kicking inside them.  And they won’t get to hold their child after they finally give birth.”

“They can,” Ed said.  “They just have to go on detached duty first.”

Gaby looked down at her sleeping son, then carefully detached him from her breast.  “Maybe we should have timed it better,” she said.  “But ...”

Ed nodded.  They’d agreed to let chance determine when - if - they had a child.  He’d been nervous for a while, wondering if he was even capable of siring a child.  The Undercity was so badly contaminated that it might well have done permanent damage, even though his medical scan - when he’d reported to Boot Camp - hadn’t revealed anything too far out of the ordinary.  He’d even promised himself that he’d get checked properly, if they failed to conceive a child in five years.  

But we had a child, he thought, as Gaby placed Douglas in his bassinet.  A perfect baby boy.

Gaby yawned.  “I need some rest,” she said, lying back on the sofa.  “Are you going to stay here?”

“I can't fit on the sofa,” Ed pointed out.  She gave him a nasty look.  “But I’ll be here until I get called away.”

“Just be quiet when you go,” Gaby said.  “I don't get enough sleep these days.”

She closed her eyes.  Ed felt a hot flush of affection, mingled with guilt.  He was going to go away and leave her alone ... he was going to risk his life once again, running the risk of leaving her alone.  He’d never understood why so many married marines went on detached duty, not until he’d had a child himself.  Now ... now, part of his mind refused to take the chance of leaving Gaby a widow.  He didn't want to leave her alone.

And yet, I have no choice, he told himself.  I have to be in command.

He looked down at his hands, silently.  Did he need to be in command?  Joe Buckley could handle the ground force, Mandy Caesius could handle the naval squadron ... there was no reason, logically, for him to be in command.  And yet, the whole concept was his idea.  He had to be the one charged with turning the idea into reality.  Thousands of years of marine history insisted that the planner who’d come up with the plan had to be the one who made it work.

Or realised, when he came face to face with reality, that the clever plan wouldn’t actually work, Ed thought.  Marines tended to learn better before they went through OCS, but he’d met a few Imperial Army and Navy officers who’d reached high rank without actually going on duty and seeing the elephant.  They’d come up with some plans that would have made excellent flicks, when the scriptwriter was on their side, but gotten a lot of people killed if they’d been tried in real life.  And they did get a lot of people killed.

He shook his head in annoyance.  It was easy to lose touch with what was actually going on, even though he knew the dangers.  God knew he’d faced the temptation to micromanage from a distance, despite knowing that micromanaging across light-years had helped bring the Empire to its knees.  The Grand Senate had never learnt that matters didn't wait for their input before proceeding.  Ed liked to tell himself that it would be different, that he would be different, but he knew better than to take it for granted.  Losing touch with reality was all too easy.

Gwen will keep me from becoming too complacent, he told himself.  But we’ll still need frequent reality checks.

He reached for his datapad and flicked through the series of updates.  General George Grosskopf’s proposal for recreating the Slaughterhouse was waiting for him, silently reminding him that the original Slaughterhouse was gone.  Ed had been resisting the temptation to recreate what they’d lost, even though he knew that they were running out of trained marines.  Half of his original company had been killed in action or transferred to places where they could put their skills to work rebuilding the local economy.  And yet ...

Recreating the Slaughterhouse would be an admission that the universe has changed, he thought, as he rose to his feet and paced towards the window.  And that things will never be the same again.

He reached the window and peered out over Camelot.  Darkness was slowly falling, but Camelot was still glowing with light.  It looked as though the city had somehow managed to expand again, doubling or even tripling its size and population since he and his men had taken ship for Corinthian.  But that was no surprise, he told himself.  Even now, even with the Commonwealth seeking to expand and diversify its industrial base, Camelot was still the centre of a growing interstellar power.  Thousands of young men and women were flowing into the city, looking for jobs and training that would give them a fresh start on life.  And many of them - perhaps all of them - were succeeding.  Camelot thrummed with an energy he’d never seen on Earth.

High overhead, lights moved through the sky.  Shuttles, climbing into orbit or descending to the nearest spaceport; aircars, flying from corporate headquarters to the mansions of the newly rich and powerful.  Camelot never slept, these days.  It was no surprise to him, at least, that the red light district had grown bigger, even though the streets were still remarkably safe.  But then, the city council had a zero-tolerance policy for troublemakers.  A few months on the work farms tended to convince even the nastiest drunk that he didn't want to pick fights in Camelot.  

Earth might have been a better place to live, he thought, if the Grand Senate had kicked out the troublemakers.

He shook his head.  Earth had had only one punishment for anyone foolish enough to be arrested, if they couldn't pay the bribe.  They were deported, dispatched to stage-one and stage-two colony worlds as indentured labour.  Hundreds of thousands - perhaps millions - of young men and women had been deported.  And yet, it had only been a tiny fraction of Earth’s immense population.  Earth had been so heavily overpopulated that collapse - and disaster - had been inevitable for years.  Policing had been impossible.  Camelot, he hoped and prayed, would never become so overcrowded.

His eyes sought out the University, glowing against the skyline.  Professor Leo Caesius was teaching there, trying to recreate the spirit of scientific enquiry.  His seeds had taken root, Ed had heard, even though it meant that most of the students kept arguing with the teachers.  But Professor Caesius had insisted that it was important.  The students had to question, they had to reason things out for themselves, even if it meant irritating or embarrassing a handful of teachers.  Ed doubted the professors enjoyed it, but they had no choice.  Students had to learn to think for themselves.

And the technical colleges help, he thought, as he looked for the smaller buildings.  Our mechanics actually know what they’re doing.

It was a sobering thought.  He’d never understood, not until he’d joined the marines, just how little he actually knew.  He had been ignorant of so much that he’d actually been ignorant of his own ignorance.  His command of thousands of pieces of trivia and thoroughly useless fragments of information had been worthless, back then.  He’d been lucky - very lucky - that the marines hadn't cared about his academic achievements.  He knew - now - that they’d been worthless.

The Commonwealth will not fall into the same trap as the Empire, he promised himself, silently.  We won’t let ourselves be bogged down too.

He looked up, again.  The stars were clearly visible, twinkling brightly in the night sky.  Sol was thousands of light-years away, so impossibly distant that he knew he couldn't hope to pick humanity’s sun out against the others.  There was no reliable data about the Core Worlds now, no way to know what was actually going on.  Civil war ... mass starvation and death ... or a new empire, rising from the ashes.  It would be a long time before he knew anything for sure.

And the Empire is gone, he thought.  We might be all that’s left.

He picked up his datapad, again.  The plans were still there, mocking him.  Approving them would feel like giving up, as if he’d surrendered; rejecting them would be a denial of reality itself.  And he could not deny reality.  It wouldn't go away when he closed his eyes.

We need more marines, he told himself.  Shaking his head, he pressed his fingers against the scanner, approving the plans.  We need them and there’s no other way to get them.

But it still felt, somehow, as though he’d surrendered to the inevitable.

Chapter Six

There was a moment - a long moment - of shuddering pleasure, then Emmanuel Alves collapsed on top of her.  Jasmine shivered in delight as he flexed against her one last time, then wilted completely.  She kissed the top of his sweaty forehead as he lay on top of her, his eyes bright and yet tired.  She’d practically dragged him into bed as soon as he’d returned to the apartment.  He hadn't put up much resistance.

“Thank you,” she said.  “I needed that.”

Emmanuel managed a smile.  “You’re going to wear me out.”

“Just take a few pills,” Jasmine said, mischievously.  “Or get one of those cock-enhancing implants.”

“I don’t want anyone operating on my cock,” Emmanuel said.  He rolled over, pulling out of her as he came to rest beside her.  “I don’t know how anyone can do it.”

“I imagine having something to make up for their small egos helps,” Jasmine commented, rubbing her breast.  He’d bitten it during their lovemaking.  “You’d think they’d just want to carry an Overcompensator around.”

“I think that would be a little heavy,” Emmanuel said, dryly.

Jasmine snorted as she sat up, looking down at him.  Emmanuel looked exhausted, too exhausted to do anything, save for lying on the bed and waiting for his strength to return.  She was tempted to join him, but she knew her duty.  There were a whole series of meetings she was expected to attend, starting in less than two hours.  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding towards the bathroom.  She wasn’t too surprised when she heard him stand up and lumber after her.

“We don’t have too much time,” she warned, as she turned on the water.  She’d never really appreciated showers until she’d gone to Boot Camp, where recruits were rarely allowed to spend more than two minutes scrubbing themselves clean.  “And we have to talk.”

“That sounds bad,” Emmanuel said.  He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her bare breasts.  “Should I be worried?”

“Perhaps,” Jasmine said.  She turned, pressing against him.  Tired or not, he was already growing hard.  Perhaps he was taking something.  “But we’ll talk about it afterwards.”

She kissed him, then allowed him to push her against the wall.  Warm water cascaded over them as they made love, washing them clean afterwards.  Jasmine luxuriated under the water for several minutes, reminding herself that she would have to go into lockdown and then a starship sooner rather than later, then hurried back into the living room.  She dressed hurriedly, pulling on her regulation underwear as Emmanuel staggered out of the shower and grabbed for a towel.  It still amused her that she could get dressed while he was looking for his clothes.

Good thing he’s more organised on campaign, she thought, amused.  And that he’s not foolish enough to risk lives for a scoop.

“All right,” Emmanuel said.  He finished dressing and sat down on the chair, giving her a thoughtful look.  “What do you want to talk to me about?”

Jasmine sat on the bed, glancing around the room.  It was neater than the average bachelor pad, she had to admit, but it was messy enough to give her former Drill Instructor a heart attack.  Even now, even given her rank, she would have hated to show the apartment to Command Sergeant Patterson.  She didn't know if the Command Sergeant could give her additional push-ups or not, but she didn't want to find out the hard way.  

“I’m going to have to go soon,” she said.  “You can't come with me.”

Emmanuel winced.  Jasmine felt a flicker of amusement, mingled with annoyance.  They weren't going to Lakshmibai or Corinthian or some other world they could reasonably bring an embedded reporter.  They were going to Wolfbane, the very heart of enemy territory.  She was nervous enough about bringing auxiliaries, even though they’d been through intensive training and even combat.  She couldn't bring a reporter.

“I understand,” he said, finally.  “But ...”

He shook his head.  Jasmine understood.  Emmanuel was a good reporter - a great reporter, perhaps.  But then, she was comparing him to the bottom-feeders she’d encountered on Han and Earth.  The bar wasn't set very high.  And yet ... he understood the problem, he understood why he couldn't go, but he wanted to go.  It would be the story of a lifetime.

“I’ll see you again, afterwards,” she promised.  “You can have an exclusive interview.”

Emmanuel smiled, wanly.  “I don’t think there’s any market for marine romance stories.”

Jasmine snickered.  A handful of copies of Marines In Bed had been passed around the barracks, back in Boot Camp.  They’d been greeted with howls of laughter, from the ridiculous dialogue to the ludicrously absurd sex scenes.  Jasmine knew, without false modesty, that she’d been in the top percentile even before she’d gone to Boot Camp, but she couldn't have performed such acts without breaking something.  Even a contortionist would have found it impossible.  The recruits had generally agreed that whoever had written the book had never met a real girl, let alone a marine.

And was probably still a virgin at fifty, she thought, wryly.

“Maybe not,” she said.  “Although there is a market for trashy novels if you want a new job.”

Emmanuel made a face.  “I have my dignity, thank you.”

“Not in bed,” Jasmine said.  

She sobered.  “I’ll be gone for at least four months,” she said, grimly.  She suspected Emmanuel would be allowed to embed with the colonel and his unit, but she didn't know for sure.  “If ... if you find someone else during that time, I’ll understand.”

“I waited for you when you were taken prisoner,” Emmanuel said.  “I can wait for you again.”

Jasmine shrugged.  She would have liked to believe it.  She certainly wanted to believe it.  But she’d seen too many relationships break up because of interstellar distances and long separations.  It was harder for marines, perhaps, because they could be rushed right across the Empire at a moment’s notice.  She’d been warned, time and time again, not to get too attached to anyone.  Better to have a brief affair, she’d been told, or even rely on self-stimulation.  Getting attached ... and breaking up ... could mean the end of her career.

Which is why so few marines actually marry until they retire, she thought, sourly.  Marriage almost always meant the end of a female marine’s career.  And then they move to the Slaughterhouse, if they don’t go find a nice stage-one colony ...

She shuddered.  There had been families on the Slaughterhouse ... what had happened to them?  She’d had friends there, friends who’d taken her into their homes and helped her to learn their ways ... what had happened to them?  She knew, all too well, that she might never know.

Emmanuel leaned forward.  “Jasmine?”

“It doesn't matter,” Jasmine said, a little harshly.

She rubbed her scalp.  She’d cut her hair short, but it was growing out again.  “I don’t know how long I will be away,” she said.  It was possible they’d meet again on Wolfbane, but she knew better than to count on it.  No one, not even Colonel Stalker, could hope to direct a multi-pronged operation on an interstellar scale.  “If you do find someone else, I don’t mind.”

Except that was a lie, and she knew it was a lie, and she suspected he knew it was a lie too.

Things have changed, she thought, ruefully.  And nothing is the same.

“I’ll wait for you,” Emmanuel said.  “I promise.”

Jasmine snorted.  “Thank you,” she said, feeling an odd flicker of disquiet.  Civilians!  “And I will see you later, I hope.”

She glanced at her appearance in the mirror, then walked out of the apartment and down the stairs to the ground.  The guard on the gate glanced at her before standing aside, allowing her to head to the road.  She hoped he wouldn't be quite so unwary when she wanted to go back in, if she didn't go straight into lockdown.  Castle Rock was supposed to be secure, but there were too many people and aircraft coming and going for total security.  No one, not even the military police, knew everyone who was meant to be on the island.

And it only takes one spy to ruin everything, she thought, as a pair of shuttlecraft roared overhead.  There were other military spaceports now, but Castle Rock was still the largest on Avalon.  One word of warning to Singh and we’re sunk.

She schooled her temper and banished it as she walked down the road, passing a set of new barracks and training grounds.  Castle Rock had just kept expanding, pushing the limits ... she wondered, absently, just how long it would be until the older buildings were knocked down to make way for newer accommodations.  She caught sight of a line of new recruits, chanting a rude cadence as they ran around the track; they looked so young, painfully young, that she couldn't help wondering why they weren't in school.  It was hard to believe that the fresh-faced boys were old enough to bear arms and go to war.

They haven’t gone to war, she told herself, stiffly.  Not yet.

Her wristcom pinged as she reached the gates.  She glanced at it.  Mandy had messaged her, asking if she’d have time to meet for dinner.  Jasmine keyed her wristcom, sending a non-committal reply, then walked through the first set of gates.  The guards descended on her as soon as the gates had closed, scanning her and then patting her down before checking her name against the authorised list.  Jasmine nodded in approval as they allowed her to enter the building itself.  As irksome as the procedure was, it had to be done.  The building had to remain secure.

She undid her wristcom and dropped it and her datapad into a secure box, then walked through a second set of doors and down the corridor.  The air smelt vaguely of disinfectant, reminding her of days spent cleaning the barracks as a new recruit.  She saw no one until she reached the office, where Rifleman Thomas Stewart and Rifleman Henry Parkinson were waiting for her.  They both looked disgustingly cheerful.  Jasmine made a mental bet with herself that they’d gone straight to the brothels, as soon as they’d disembarked from the shuttle, and not come out until she’d called them.  She supposed it did have its advantages.

“Jasmine,” Stewart said.  “Or is it Brigadier right now?”

“It's Supreme Overlord,” Jasmine said, sardonically.  She was too tired to bandy words.  “Or perhaps Your Supremacy.”

“I don’t think that either of them are recognised ranks,” Parkinson said.  “You could call yourself Mistress of the Knives, instead.”

Jasmine smiled.  She'd been the company champion at knife-throwing.  She wondered, absently, if she still was.  They hadn’t had the time to get together and have a proper series of contests.  How could they?

“I need volunteers for a mission,” she said.  “Can I assume that you two have volunteered?”

Stewart shrugged.  “I knew I should have stayed drinking,” he said.  “Curse my low stomach volume.”

“You’d be bitching more if you were fat enough to drink a trough,” Parkinson pointed out, rudely.  He looked at Jasmine.  “Should I assume we’ve been volunteered?”

“Probably,” Jasmine said.  She smiled.  “Risk of being caught, tortured and killed - high.”

“I knew it,” Stewart said.  “I suppose you have a pair of volunteers.  Now, what do you actually want us to do?”

“We’re going to Wolfbane,” Jasmine said.  She didn't insult them by asking if they wanted to back out.  “It should be fun.”

“I suppose,” Parkinson said.  He elbowed Stewart.  “You really should have stayed drinking.”

“Yeah,” Stewart agreed.  He stood.  “When are we going?”

“There’s some briefing papers on the datanet,” Jasmine said.  “You can read them in the next room.”  She sat down behind the desk.  “I have to interview a couple of others, then we can go through the planning stages.  Hopefully, we’ll have a full team in a day or two.”

“Understood,” Parkinson said.  “We’ll be ready for you.”

Jasmine shook her head, inwardly, as she watched them go.  She knew she was a little bitchy, but ... she sighed, tiredly.  Going to Wolfbane would be a challenge, a challenge she knew could end badly.  Admiral Singh had every reason to hate her, personally.  If she got caught - again - she knew getting out would not be easy.  Admiral Singh would probably blow Jasmine’s brains out before she had a chance to recover.

There was a knock at the door.  “Come!”

The door opened, revealing a muscular young woman with short red hair.  She would have been pretty, Jasmine considered, if she hadn't had a nasty scar on her face.  No one would have blamed her for removing it, but she wore it like a badge of honour.  The auxiliary uniform she wore was a warning not to take her too lightly.

“Meade Hazelstone,” the newcomer said.  “I understand you’re looking for volunteers ...?”

Jasmine nodded, motioning for Meade to take a seat.  She’d never crossed paths with Meade before, if she recalled correctly.  The young woman’s file stated that she’d joined the company shortly before it left Earth, going into stasis without meeting the majority of the company’s personnel.  It would have bothered Jasmine, she admitted, if Meade hadn't enjoyed recommendations from people Jasmine trusted.  She’d made quite a career for herself since Avalon had been cut off from the Empire.

“I am,” Jasmine said.  “Did you read the briefing notes?”

“Such as they are,” Meade said, briskly.  Her voice was accented, although Jasmine couldn't place it.  “I believe I meet your requirements.”

Jasmine lifted her eyebrows.  “Certificates?”

“Grade Ten Mechanic, Five Star Shooter, Black Belt Semper Fu,” Meade drawled.  Jasmine had the impression that she was all too used to answering that question.  “I failed the Slaughterhouse, not Boot Camp.”

“Your file says you washed out,” Jasmine said.  “What actually happened?”

“I had a ... personality conflict with the team leader during an exercise,” Meade said.  “It turned into a pretty bad argument.  And so I got marked down.”

Jasmine frowned.  Marines had to be team players.  She’d had to work with people she disliked in the past, no matter how she felt about them.  For Meade to be incapable of hiding her true feelings, of burying them behind a veneer of professionalism ... it wasn't good.  She wouldn't have been given a second chance, either.  Jasmine was mildly surprised she’d been allowed to go into the auxiliaries.

“You have excellent mechanical qualifications,” she said, slowly.  “How did you get those?”

“I grew up on a freighter,” Meade said.  “The family has always been engineers, always - my three brothers and I were taught the trade by my father.  Problem was ... the ship was too small for us when we grew up.  My oldest brother got the ship; the rest of us scattered across the universe.  I went to the marines.”

Jasmine lifted her eyebrows.  “Why didn't you stay an engineer?  You have the qualifications, don’t you?”

There was a flicker of pain on Meade’s face.  “These days - those days - it was unusual to find a female engineer who was genuinely qualified, let alone experienced,” she said.  “The only women who applied were silly idiots who’d been through the groundhog training centres, but couldn't do more than unhook a component and replace it with a spare.  They had poor reputations.  And it spilled onto me, even though I could fix a broken drive modulator with my eyes closed.”

“Ouch,” Jasmine said.  “You didn't have good references?”

“Only from my family,” Meade said.  She sighed.  “They did try, but it was a pain in the ass proving myself.  I had a couple of unsatisfactory positions ... well, let’s just say I learned to hate being questioned all the time.   I made it through Boot Camp, but I didn't do so well at the Slaughterhouse.  Coming here, as a trained engineer, struck me as my last best chance.”

“And it was,” Jasmine said.  She met the younger woman’s eyes.  “Are you sure you want to volunteer for this mission?”

“Yes,” Meade said, flatly.

Jasmine studied her for a long moment.  It wasn't unknown for auxiliaries to become resentful, over the years.  They worked closely with marines, but - despite their technological qualifications - they would never be marines unless they returned to the Slaughterhouse.  Meade had evidently had a chip on her shoulder long before she’d gone to Boot Camp, a chip that had eventually spoiled her chances of winning a Rifleman’s Tab.  Taking her could be dangerous ...

... And yet, she was qualified.  Perhaps a little over-qualified.

“We’ll be going into lockdown soon,” she said, meeting Meade’s eyes.  “If you don’t get through the training, you’ll stay in lockdown until the mission is over, one way or the other.  I can't risk word getting out, even by accident.  Do you understand?”

Meade looked back evenly.  “Yes, Brigadier.”

Jasmine nodded to herself.  Meade had had plenty of training.  She should understand the requirements, no matter how oppressive they seemed to civilians.  And yet, Jasmine couldn't help feeling that Meade would be a two-edged sword.  Her anger issues might turn into a serious problem.

So ride herd on her, Jasmine’s thoughts mocked her.  She wouldn't be the first person you’ve had to supervise closely.

“Take a break, take a walk,” Jasmine said.  She made a show of looking at her watch.  “If you are determined to carry on with the mission, come back this evening at 1700.  I’ll make my final decision then.  If you don't show up ... well, I’ll assume you decided to change your mind.”

Meade’s eyes glittered.  “I understand,” she said.  “I’ll see you at 1700.”

“Very good,” Jasmine said.  “Dismissed.”

She tapped the terminal as Meade left the room, bringing up the auxiliary’s file.  A string of commendations, matched with a line of disciplinary reports.   Meade would have been busted out of the corps by now, if she hadn't been a very good engineer.  No one doubted her bravery, it seemed, but they questioned her judgement.

I’ll just have to keep an eye on her, Jasmine thought.  And hope.

She keyed a switch.  “Next!”  

Chapter Seven

Commodore Mandy Caesius couldn't help wondering, as she waited outside the restaurant, if her sister had stood her up.  Mindy had always been the sensible one of the family, but she had become a dirty groundpounder and fought - with honour - during the Battle of Corinthian.  It was easy to believe that her sister, who’d been a mere fourteen when the family had been exiled to Avalon, had gone mad.  She was still only twenty to Mandy’s twenty-two.

Not that either of us have had an easy time of it, she thought, as a cold wind blew through the growing city.  They were far too close to the docks for her comfort, even though she knew it was safe.  She’d hated large bodies of water from the day she’d taken her first swimming lessons on Earth.  She went to the groundpounders and I ... I went to space.

She shivered, cursing the immature brat she’d been.  She’d given her parents a hard time, whining and moaning and complaining because she hadn't had the latest of ... well, everything.  The older woman she’d become wished she could go back in time and slap her younger self, then point her at some genuine technical education.  It hadn’t been entirely impossible to get a decent education on Earth, but it had required a certain degree of self-study.  The time she’d wasted in examining the latest dresses or chasing cute boys could have been spent studying science and engineering instead.  By the time Jasmine had straightened her out, she’d almost wasted her life.

The wind seemed to blow colder, just for a second.  She heard birds cawing in the distance as night fell over the city, reminding her that Camelot was still an untamed environment.  There were families who kept chickens, she knew; chickens that laid eggs and would eventually be slaughtered to provide a meal for their owners.  She’d been sick, she recalled, when she’d finally grasped where her meat had come from.  She’d never made the connection between the animals and her dinner.

I was a stupid bitch, she thought, with a flash of self-loathing.  Everything she’d done - from sabotaging a pirate cruiser to becoming the youngest squadron commander in recent history - seemed to belong to someone else.  It was almost as if she’d sprung into existence, fully grown.  And I should have died.

She turned as she heard footsteps.  A young woman was approaching, her hair cut close to her scalp ... Mandy stepped aside automatically, then stared as she recognised her sister’s eyes.  Her body was so different - so muscular - that she couldn't help wondering if Mindy had actually transferred her mind into another body.  But she knew that was absurd.  She’d lost the rest of her baby fat during her captivity.

Fretting didn't help either, she thought.  She’d done terrible things to survive.  I could have died out there ...

“Mandy,” Mindy said.  “You’re looking good.”

“You need your eyes checked,” Mandy said.  She looked down at herself.  The shirt and trousers she wore covered everything below her neck.  She just wasn't comfortable wearing revealing clothes, not now.  “I look terrible.”

“You look healthy,” Mindy said.  She struck a dramatic pose.  “And how do I look?”

Mandy shook her head in disbelief.  Mindy definitely looked different.  Mandy couldn't help thinking of Jasmine, but there was an immaturity about Mindy - even now - that was nothing like the older marine.  Mindy bobbed from side to side, as if she couldn't stand still even for a second.  Her muscles were larger, her breasts were smaller ... she looked ... she looked strange.  And yet, somehow, it suited her.

“You look older,” she said, finally.  She’d lorded her age over her younger sibling, once upon a time.  She had a feeling that that wouldn't get her anywhere now.  “Shall we go in?”

Mindy raised her eyebrows.  “Shouldn't we wait for Jasmine?”

“She said she’d be here if she could make it,” Mandy said.  It was a disappointment - she’d hoped to meet her mentor - but military life had taught her that the military came first, always.  At least she wasn't a wife staying at home, never knowing when her husband might come home on leave ... or in a coffin.  “I hope she’ll come, but ...”

She felt oddly out of place as they walked into the restaurant.  It had been founded by a refugee family from Lakshmibai, one of the many people who’d helped the CEF as it battled its way to rescue the hostages.  The refugees had done well for themselves, she decided, as a dark-skinned girl led them to their seats.  She just hoped they managed to blend in as their children grew older.  Mandy had learned, the hard way, that failing to blend in on Avalon could be disastrous.

“I’m going to NCO School,” Mindy said, sitting down.  The waitress passed them a pair of menus, then retreated.  “I report to Castle Rock on Tuesday.”

So she won’t be going with us, Mandy thought.  Mindy didn't know about Sucker Punch, of course.  She’d certainly not been invited to the preliminary meeting.  Is that good or bad?

“Congratulations,” she said, instead.  “I hope you do well.”

“I hope so too,” Mindy said.  “Sergeant Rackham said I had potential, but I’d have to work hard.”

“I think that’s true of everything,” Mandy said.  She didn't know Sergeant Rackham, but she did know Command Sergeant Gwendolyn Patterson.  The woman had scared her, when Mandy had first met her.  Even now, the older woman was terrifying.  “How long is the course?”

“Nine months, apparently,” Mindy said.  “If I pass, I get to do an apprenticeship before they give me a platoon of my own.  And if I fail, I get sent back to my unit with a flea in my ear.”

“Probably literally,” Mandy said.  “Have you thought about transferring to the navy?”

Mindy shook her head.  “It isn't aggressive enough.”

Mandy snorted.  “It is.”

“No, it isn’t,” Mindy said.  “It’s just lights on a screen.”

Mandy rolled her eyes, although she took her sister’s point.  Mindy had always been the more physical of them.  Even as a child, Mandy hadn't dared to push her sister around too much.  Of course, she’d also been taught that violence never solved anything ... she’d learnt, the hard way, that too many of her teachers were liars.  When society collapsed, might made right.

Mindy would have been fine, if we’d stayed on Earth, she thought.  Wouldn't she?

The waitress returned, carrying a bottle of wine.  Mandy ordered quickly, then motioned for the waitress to wait as she saw Jasmine entering the restaurant.  The marine looked tired, as if she’d walked for miles without a rest.  Mandy couldn't help feeling a flicker of concern for the older woman, even though she knew Jasmine could beat both of them with one hand tied behind her back.  Everyone had their breaking point.

“You have a terrible crush on her,” Mindy whispered, as she poured three glasses of red wine.  “Don't you?”

Mandy glowered at her.  She’d had a couple of girlfriends, back on Earth, but they hadn't lasted.  Boys had been more interesting, even when they’d turned demanding.  Jasmine ... was nothing like either of them.  It was easier to think of her as an older sister, perhaps a cousin, than anything else.  They were very different.

“Jasmine,” she said, holding out the menu.  “You’re just in time.”

Jasmine gave her a tired smile.  “I wasn't sure I was going to make it,” she said, as she took the menu.  “Chicken Supreme, please.”

The waitress looked alarmed.  “That’s the hottest thing on the menu,” she said.  “Would you not rather ...”

“Chicken Supreme,” Jasmine repeated.  “I’ve eaten food prepared by Joe Buckley.  I’ll survive your curry.”

Mindy giggled as the waitress scurried away.  “Is he as bad as Private Baldrick?”

Jasmine pointed a finger at her.  “It is a law of nature,” she said, “that military cooking is always awful.  Adding spicy sauce is often the only thing that makes it edible.”

“Yuk,” Mandy said.

“We shot a racoon back on Corinthian,” Mindy said.  “It tasted fine, once we got rid of the smell of buckshot.”

Mandy glanced from one to the other, then shrugged.  She’d eaten a few military rations herself, although the navy generally had better food.  “You should probably have stuck with the ration bars,” she said.  “I thought they tasted like cardboard.”

“That’s why we slather them in sauce,” Jasmine said.  She leaned back in her chair.  “How was your day?”

Mindy smiled.  “I’m going to NCO school!”

“Lucky you,” Jasmine said.  “Remember to take an apple for the teacher.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Mandy said.

“She’ll need to be noticed,” Jasmine said.  She looked Mindy up and down.  “Do you intend to return to the field or go into training?”

“The field,” Mindy said.  “I don’t think I can shout for hours without losing my voice.”

“There are augmentations for that,” Jasmine said.  “Just remember to look confident, even though you’re panicking on the inside.”

Mandy frowned.  “Do you panic?”

“No,” Jasmine said.  She winked, showing a flicker of her old self.  “Of course, I could be lying.”

“I don’t think you do,” Mandy said.

Jasmine nodded.  “I got over the panic reflex back home,” she said, seriously.  “And anyone who managed to keep it after a few months in Boot Camp probably wouldn't graduate.”

Mandy nodded.  She’d been through too much to panic at the slightest setback.  “I can't imagine you panicking.”

“Good,” Jasmine said.  “And what have you been doing?”

“Reloading the squadron,” Mandy said.  She kept her voice even with an effort.  Mindy was the only person at the table who didn't know the truth.  She’d be furious when she realised that Mandy had lied to her.  “We’re going to Thule in force, once we’re ready to depart.”

Mindy frowned.  “There can't be much left there,” she said.  “Or am I wrong?”

“We might recover some of the industrial base,” Mandy said, although she knew it was unlikely.  She’d devastated every industrial platform within reach when she’d been forced to abandon the system.  The Wolves would make sure to devastate the rest when they were kicked out by superior force.  “But it will also be a second blow to enemy morale.  Thule was their first major victory, after all.”

“And they’re sending you back there,” Mindy said.  She sounded calculating.  Mandy felt a shiver running down her spine.  “I thought that wasn't allowed.”

“I am a naval officer,” Mandy reminded her, stiffly.  “I can put my feelings aside for the greater good.”

“And we’re scraping the barrel,” Jasmine put in.  “Mandy is the only squadron commander without a current assignment.”

“We must be desperate,” Mindy teased.

Mandy kicked her under the table.  “They’re making you an NCO,” she pointed out.  “The end of the war is in sight!”

Jasmine coughed.  “Remind me how old you two are meant to be again?”

“She started it,” Mindy said.

Mandy flushed.  It didn't matter how old she was - and it probably never would.  Being with her sister meant becoming a teenager again.  Or at least acting like a teenager.  She shuddered, remembering some of the tantrums she’d thrown ... she’d deserved to be slapped or worse, rather than her father’s soft rebukes and her mother’s screaming fits.  But then, parents on Earth had had very little authority over their children.  She’d certainly considered walking away more than once and going straight to a home for emancipated children ...

And if the rumours from those homes are true, she thought grimly, I dodged a bullet.

“We’re too old to be childish,” she said, finally.  They weren't children any longer, no matter how they felt.  They were adults, with adult responsibilities.  “Perhaps we should talk about something else.”

The food arrived before Jasmine could reply; three bowls of curry, a large pan of rice and a piece of bread so large that it blocked the table.  Jasmine picked up one of the bowls, removed a warning sign and dipped a piece of bread into the curry.  Mandy caught sight of the waitress watching from the counter as Jasmine put the curry into her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully.  The smell wasn't unpleasant, but it was strong.

“Not bad,” Jasmine said.  The waitress looked astonished.  “Could do with a little extra spice, but otherwise ...”

She held out the bowl.  “Try some?”

“No, thank you,” Mandy said, quickly.  “I’ll stick with something cooler.”

“That’s the navy way,” Mindy needled.  “You flee when the fire gets too hot.”

Mandy scowled at her.  “Poisoning myself isn't my idea of fun,” she said, as she took some of her own curry.  “I don’t know how anyone can eat that ... that ... stuff.”

“Modified taste buds,” Mindy said.  “Right?” 

Jasmine shook her head.  “My homeworld was pretty fond of spicy food,” she said.  “And Joe ... well, he cooks by covering everything in spicy marinade and then adding extra sauce.  No one can outdo him for food that tastes suspiciously like high explosive.”

Mindy snorted.  “Does cooking for the men bother you?”

“We take turns to cook,” Jasmine said.  Her face shadowed.  “Or we used to, back when we were just a small platoon that was part of a larger company.  The only people who didn't cook were the ones who volunteered to dig latrines instead.  It wasn't much of an improvement.”

“I would have thought not,” Mindy agreed.

“Richard managed to give us all a bellyache, somehow,” Jasmine added.  “The entire platoon had the galloping shits for days.  And then we threatened him with physical violence if he even looked at the cooking pots.  I don’t know what he put in his stew, but it probably violated a dozen laws on chemical weapons.”

“Sounds a nice sort of bloke,” Mindy said.  “Have we met him?”

“He bought it on Han,” Jasmine said.  “The bad guys got lucky and potted him as he crawled along a rooftop.  He ...”

She shook her head.  “He was a good bloke,” she added.  “But he did poison us all.”

Mandy winced.  “Can we talk about something else over dinner?”

“If you wish,” Mindy said.  “Have you found a new boyfriend yet?”

“No,” Mandy said, swallowing a number of very nasty replies.  “You?”

“It’s a bit harder to find a boyfriend when you’re going to the wars,” Mindy said.  “There was someone, but ...”

“It didn't work out,” Jasmine said.  “It rarely does.”

Mandy sighed.  She hadn’t exactly been raped, when she’d been trapped on a pirate ship, but she’d been pushed into surrendering herself.  And if she hadn't been useful, if she hadn't had some engineering skills, she knew she wouldn't even have had that much choice.  She could have been raped and murdered at any moment and no one would have given a damn.  She’d broken up with her former boyfriend after returning to Avalon, then closed her heart.  She couldn't bear the thought of letting someone else so close to her.

She met Jasmine’s eyes.  “And you?”

“Our relationship may not last,” Jasmine said.  “If we break up, we break up; if we stay together, we stay together.”

“How very philosophical,” Mindy said.

“Death can come at any moment,” Jasmine pointed out, dryly.  “There’s no point in drawing up long-term plans when they might be completely useless - or worse.”

“You want to wait until after the war,” Mandy said.

“But there might be another war afterwards,” Mindy countered.  “The Wolves, the Trade Federation and ourselves can't be the only ones left.”

Mandy nodded in agreement.  The Empire was - had been - huge.  There had been thousands of inhabited worlds, with rumours of hundreds more beyond the edge of explored space.  The Core Worlds - Earth, in particular - might be gone, but that still left countless thousands of worlds that might start the return to space.  Mindy was right.  The three known interstellar powers couldn't be all that was left of the Empire.

Four, if you count Admiral Singh’s little empire, she thought.  And five, if you count the RockRats.

“We will see,” Jasmine said.  She lifted her wineglass and took a sip.  “I’d like to know what happened to my family, but I may never get any answers.”

Mandy felt a stab of bitter pity.  She’d been exiled, sure, but she’d been exiled with her family.  Jasmine’s family were thousands of light-years away, if they were still alive.  There was no way to know what had happened to them, save for going and looking.  And while the navy had talked about dispatching missions corewards, the truth was that it would be a long time before they got off the ground.  The Wolfbane War alone was consuming all of their resources.

We might never see the galaxy reunified in our lifetimes, she thought, morbidly.  And Jasmine may never see her family again.

“You’re part of our family now,” she said, softly.  “You’re my older sister.”

“A thankless job,” Mindy teased.

Jasmine looked oddly amused.  “I am an older sister,” she reminded them, dryly.  “It was a thankless task.  I had nine siblings.”

“Ouch,” Mindy said.  “Did you have an extended family?”

“One mother, one father, ten children,” Jasmine said.  “They were busy.”

Mandy shook her head in amusement.  She’d known families on Earth that had had dozens of children, but they’d all been extended families.  The government benefits had been the only thing keeping some of them alive, too.  Jasmine’s parents had to have been mad ...

“Very busy,” she said, softly.  “And now perhaps we can talk of happier things.”

“And then go clubbing,” Mindy added.

“Maybe not,” Jasmine said.  “Being recognised would be embarrassing.”

Mandy laughed, regretfully.  “Let us just talk of happier things,” she said.  “The war will wait a day or two.”

“Unless Admiral Singh strikes first,” Jasmine said.  “That could be the end.”

“You’re not allowed to talk anymore,” Mindy said.

Chapter Eight

If there was one advantage to having a relatively new intelligence service, Ed had decided long before the Battle of Corinthian, it was that the spooks hadn't had a chance to put down roots yet.  The Empire’s vast collection of intelligence and security services had been more interested in bureaucratic infighting and covering their collective asses than collecting, analysing and distributing intelligence to the military.  He dreaded to think how many operations had gone spectacularly wrong because the intelligence staff had been ignorant, among other things, of their own ignorance.  They’d cultivated an air of omniscience that had regularly bitten someone else on the behind.

The Commonwealth Intelligence Service hadn't had a chance to build a spectacular headquarters either, he reflected, as he walked into Kitty Stevenson’s office.  The spooks wouldn't have a fancy headquarters either, if he had his way.  They would never have the chance to lose touch with the facts on the ground, or the men and women who depended on the intelligence officers for proper analysis.  The building had an impermanent air, suggesting that the office could be closed down at a moment’s notice.  Everything, from the desks and chairs to the secure filing cabinets, was designed for hasty removal.

And a distributed service is harder to take out, he thought, wryly.  The Empire had established three intelligence headquarters on Han, all of which had been obliterated in the opening moments of the war.  The CIS won’t be crippled so easily.

Colonel Kitty Stevenson rose to her feet as he entered, snapping out a salute.  She was a tall, red-headed woman; her hair, very definitely not of regulation length, hanging down her back and brushing against her bottom.  Her uniform was just tight enough to push the limits without infringing regulations, such as they were.  Kitty had been in Naval Intelligence before being exiled to Avalon, but her staff were either drawn from civilian agencies or newly-recruited on Avalon.  There was no real dress code for the CIS.

And she could just take off her uniform and blend into the civilian world, Ed thought.  Kitty was tall and strong, but that hardly made her stand out on Avalon.  She wants people to look at her uniform, not at her face.

“Colonel,” Kitty said.  “Thank you for coming.”

Ed smiled, rather ruefully.  He was used to getting by on very little sleep, yet a baby’s cries - and demands to be fed - were alarmingly wearisome.  He’d slept through incoming mortar rounds and shellfire - safe in the knowledge that the marines were hidden under a bunker - but his son demanded his immediate attention.  He had the feeling he’d be going mad if he hadn't had plenty of experience in coping with little sleep.  In truth, he had no idea how his mother - or Gaby - managed to cope.

“I meant to visit earlier,” he said, taking the offered seat.  “I trust that Operation Deception is proceeding as planned?”

“Yes, sir,” Kitty said.  She poured them both a mug of coffee, then passed one to him and sat back down behind her desk.  “We’ve started spreading rumours about the squadron’s planned targets in all the usual places.  Everyone knows that Commodore Caesius and her fleet will hit Thule.”

Ed nodded, sipping his coffee.  “And the remainder of the squadrons?”

“Assigned to various reinforcement missions,” Kitty said.  “Their CO’s have sealed orders, which will be opened once the ships are in phase space.  The remainder of their crews have no reason to suspect that they’re going somewhere else.  I hear they’re quite envious of Commodore Caesius’s squadron.”

“Good,” Ed said.  That spoke well for morale, even though the Commonwealth had taken a beating during the first year of the war.  But then, his crews had been trained to think and plan for themselves, not follow orders slavishly.  They knew they had the edge.  “And our double agents?”

He took another sip of his coffee, smiling inwardly at the sour taste.  The CIS received the same coffee blend as the rest of the military, a foul brew that banished sleep and damaged taste buds.  He’d made sure of it, knowing just how easy it was for the spooks to obtain their own black market coffee.  They couldn't be allowed to think of themselves as anything special, not when they had to keep their ear to the ground.  Hell, he was pushing things by allowing Kitty Stevenson to remain in her office for over a year.

“They’ve picked up the message,” Kitty said.  “Hannalore has been cooperating.”

Ed felt his expression darken.  Governor Brent Roeder - the former Governor of Avalon - had accepted his demotion with good grace, but his wife had never been resigned to losing her position as queen bee.  She’d slipped into treachery, selling out the Commonwealth in exchange for a promise that her husband would be allowed to rule Avalon after the war.  And she’d been a hellishly effective spy.  Ed had never really understood just how many people talked freely at Hannalore Roeder’s parties, let alone how much could be coaxed out of them by a friendly ear.  It had been sheer luck that Hannalore had been caught before she could do real damage.

She did quite enough, he thought, grimly.  And we can never forgive her.

He scowled down into his mug.  Hannalore had switched sides the moment she’d been caught, offering to send disinformation to Wolfbane in exchange for amnesty.  Ed hadn't wanted to take the deal, even though he understood the necessity.  The chance to mislead Wolfbane, to lure Admiral Singh into a trap, was one he couldn't afford to miss.  But it still meant letting a known traitor get away with it.  Hannalore would never be trusted again - she’d be exiled from Avalon once the war was over - but she’d be alive.  She deserved to be put in front of a wall and shot.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he lied.  He would have been glad of an excuse to shoot the wretched bitch.  She’d sold out the Commonwealth for a pipe dream.  “Did she send the message?”

“Yes, she did,” Kitty said.  She cocked her head, thoughtfully.  “However, sir, we must face up to the possibility that her position has been exposed.”

Ed looked up.  “What do you mean?”

“We used Hannalore - and the handful of other double agents - to convince Admiral Singh to launch her invasion of Corinthian,” Kitty reminded him.  “And that didn't end well for Admiral Singh.  She may take everything she hears from Hannalore and her fellows with a grain of salt.”

Ed made a face.  If Hannalore was useless ... he shook his head, angrily dismissing the thought.  They’d made a deal.  Perhaps it was a bad deal, perhaps it stuck in his craw ... they’d made a deal.  And they had to keep that deal.  Hannalore couldn't be blamed - fairly - for Admiral Singh choosing not to believe her in future.  She had sent the enemy some pretty damning misinformation, after all.

He took another sip of his coffee.  “Do we have any reason to believe that Hannalore’s cover has been blown?”

Kitty shrugged.  “A smart intelligence officer would understand that Hannalore might have been misled herself,” she said.  “They don’t have any easy way to touch base with her, not during wartime.  We’d intercept any electronic message sent to her.  But sir ... in intelligence, there’s always the risk that someone is playing games with you.  I suspect they always took her intelligence with a pinch of salt.  And now they have a good reason to discard it altogether.”

“Ouch,” Ed said.

“On the other hand, we have been seeding the idea of Thule pretty heavily,” Kitty added, thoughtfully.  “Any other intelligence operatives on Avalon will probably have caught wind of it by now.  The message might already have gone out.”

Ed shook his head.  There were hundreds of thousands - perhaps millions - of newcomers on Avalon, with hundreds of interplanetary spacecraft and starships entering and leaving the system every day.  There was no way the newcomers could all be vetted, any more than the ships could be searched without imposing impossible delays.  And even a good search party might miss a microscopic datachip or encrypted files hidden within a commercial-grade datacore.  A spy who landed on Avalon might find himself in a position to pick up a great deal of intelligence, as long as he was careful not to walk into one of the secure zones.  

“As long as they believe it,” he said, finally.  “But we can't guarantee that, can we?”

“No, sir,” Kitty said.  “Admiral Singh may choose to disbelieve the intelligence.”

“Or she may decide that Thule isn't worth defending any longer,” Ed said.  Intelligence was scarce, but it looked as through the insurgents who’d bedevilled the CEF were now bedevilling the Wolves instead.  Thule’s industrial base, the prize that had lured the Commonwealth into dispatching the CEF in the first place, no longer existed.  “She might just withdraw her starships and abandon the system.”

“Which we could spin into a major victory,” Kitty pointed out.

Ed shook his head.  The Empire’s spin doctors had been experts at turning defeats or costly victories into one-sided engagements where the enemy had been exterminated on the cheap, but the population of Avalon wasn't so easily fooled.  A good third of the population had some military experience, on one side or the other.  They’d know that Thule was effectively worthless these days, that the other side had withdrawn rather than stand and fight ... they’d know that the news reports were worthless.  Putting out the truth, even when the truth reflected badly on the Commonwealth, was the only way to bolster confidence and trust in the long run.  It would pay off, he told himself.  Eventually.

And passing laws to make it clear that reporters can be held accountable for lies, libel and endangered lives will do the rest, he thought.  They’re not considered little tin gods any longer.

“We could certainly try to convince the Wolves that Thule was a major defeat,” Kitty insisted, dryly.  “It might push them to overthrow her.”

“Too chancy,” Ed said.  Beaming propaganda into the enemy’s datanets was easy enough, but it ran the same risk of overdoing it.  Too many lies were easy to spot.  “And besides, we’re not going to Thule.”

“We do have the system under observation,” Kitty said.  “They might just withdraw when they hear we’re coming.”

Ed shrugged.  If he’d been in command of the opposing force, he’d have left a small force to hold the high orbitals and otherwise withdrawn from Thule.  The planet’s short-term value was practically nil, now the industries were gone.  He suspected the Wolves had already conscripted anyone with valuable technological skills and shipped them off to Wolfbane, leaving the rest of the system alone.  In the long term, Thule would blossom again, but that would take years.  Admiral Singh would no doubt prefer that it didn't blossom until she emerged victorious.

“It doesn't matter for the moment,” he said.  “How long until Admiral Singh hears the news?”

Kitty tapped a switch, displaying a holographic starchart over her desk.  An expanding sphere, centred on Avalon, appeared in front of them.  Ed leaned forward, silently assessing the situation.  It looked unchanged, but he knew that looks could be deceiving.  There was no way to track the war in real time.

“It’s been two weeks since we started spreading the rumours,” Kitty said.  “Assuming they were picked up at once, and they should have been, word might be reaching the edge of enemy space by now.  Hannalore’s message was sent a few days later.  I’d be fairly sure Admiral Singh will get the message in two to three weeks.  They’re using converted courier boats as spies.”

Ed nodded in annoyance.  Wolfbane had had a very definite advantage, although it had taken him some time to realise it.  Governor Brown had had a small fleet of courier boats under his direct control, a fleet Admiral Singh had inherited.  They were tiny ships, nothing more than phase drives with a cockpit attached, but they were fast, easily twice as fast in FTL as anything else.  Admiral Singh could get word back from the front - and send out orders - faster than anyone else.  

And she would know better than to rely on it, he thought, sourly.  She actually earned her rank.  She’d understand the dangers of trying to micromanage from a distance.

He ground his teeth.  Long-distance micromanagement was always a disaster waiting to happen - the Grand Senate had proved that often enough - but Admiral Singh was closer to the war front than the Grand Senate had ever been.  She could get her orders out to the front quicker than the Grand Senate, then hear their responses in time to do something about it ... something that might actually be effective.  She’d certainly have a much better idea of what was actually going on.

“And then she’ll have to decide what to do,” Ed mused.  “A pity we can't push her directly.”

“No, sir,” Kitty agreed.  “She would probably notice any manipulations, if we tried.”

Ed leaned forward.  “How solid is your intelligence on Wolfbane?”

Kitty frowned.  “As solid as it can be,” she said, waving her hand and dismissing the starchart.  “We debriefed a number of defectors - we even debriefed a number of POWs who wanted to go into a POW camp, rather than defect.  The Trade Federation has quite a few sources of its own on Wolfbane and they’ve shared what they know with us ...”

She shrugged.  “In truth, sir, we’re not mind-readers.  We can make guesses at what Admiral Singh is thinking, sir; we can make guesses about her likely opponents, but they’re nothing more than guesswork.  Too much depends on individual personalities, people who may know more or less than we think they know.  People are generally rational in their own best interests, but we don’t know what they think to be their best interests.”

“They may decide that Admiral Singh is a safer bet for their futures than us,” Ed said.  “And they might be right.”

“Yes, sir,” Kitty said.

Ed silently gave her points for honesty.  “And the prospects of a violent uprising?”

“Impossible to calculate,” Kitty told him, bluntly.  “We do know that life on Wolfbane is very restricted, but that was true before Governor Brown took control.  The population might be discontented - it might be rebellious - yet it may be unable to translate that feeling into action.  There’s a shortage of guns, it seems.”

“And without guns, revolution is impossible,” Ed said.

“I imagine that the corporations would try to stave off a full-scale rebellion,” Kitty said.  “A long period of unrest would be very bad for business.  But if the rebels got too aggressive ...”

“They’d be squashed,” Ed said.  

“Yes, sir,” Kitty said.  “Admiral Singh holds the cards - and I don’t think she’s particularly squeamish.”

Ed nodded, grimly.  He’d read Admiral Singh’s file carefully, time and time again.  The Imperial Navy had always had a problem with personnel assessments - an assessment that didn't insist the officer could walk on water was damning - but, reading between the lines, it was clear that Admiral Singh had clawed her way up from almost nothing.  Indeed, in many ways, she wasn't that different from Ed himself.  It was quite possible that they shared an unspoken contempt for those who couldn't or wouldn't climb out of the gutter and reach for the stars.  Admiral Singh might not hesitate to unleash armoured troopers on rioting mobs, with orders to kill as many as possible.  She’d see it as teaching the survivors a valuable lesson.

“Then all we can do is hope,” he said.  “Jasmine and her team leave in a week, heading to Calomel.  The remainder of the force will lift two weeks afterwards, spearheaded by all five platoons.”

Kitty raised her eyebrows.  “You intend to take all of the platoons?”

“Yes,” Ed said.  The CEF was good - and the Stormtroopers were coming along nicely - but the marines still had the advantage.  “They’re the best we have, even now.”

“Risky,” Kitty observed.  “Can you even assemble them without setting off alarms?”

Ed smiled.  “I think so,” he said.  Sneaking around Avalon galled him, but there was no alternative.  The planet was under enemy observation.  “Everyone knows the CEF is being redeployed, anyway.”

“Unfortunately,” Kitty said.  “But at least it will add meat to the planned attack on Thule.”

“Yes,” Ed agreed.

He shook his head in cold annoyance.  No one had fought a real interstellar war in centuries, not since the Unification Wars.  The Empire’s long string of military campaigns had been targeted on isolated worlds, not interstellar powers ... even the Carpathian Revolt had involved only five star systems, none of which could muster a real challenge to the Imperial Navy.  The high cost had been caused by naval incompetence, not enemy action.  But the Commonwealth was learning as it went along ...

Too many things could go wrong, he knew.  Admiral Singh might not fall for their deception - she might not even see the deception.  Or she might have her own plans ... war was a democracy, after all.  The enemy had a vote.  She might be doing something, right now, that would undermine everything Ed had planned.  Or someone might have assassinated her already.  There was just no way to know.

“Make sure the word keeps going out,” he said, rising.  “And keep me informed.”

“Of course, sir,” Kitty said.  “We have done this before.”

“But the stakes have never been so high,” Ed said.  The Commonwealth had won a great victory, but it wasn't enough to put an end to the war.  “We could still lose.”

And having to play cloak and dagger games, he added silently, only makes it harder to focus on what’s truly important.

Chapter Nine

“Transit complete, Captain.”

Captain Christopher Brookes leaned back into his command chair as Powerhouse and her comrades crossed the Phase Limit, plunging into the Trieste System.  It had been a long flight from Titlark, long enough for the unexpected additions to his crew to put a strain on morale, but it was over now.  He watched the in-system display gradually start to fill up, revealing the presence of seven planets and a handful of radio sources deeper into the system.  There were not, as he had expected, any starships within detection range.

He ran his hand through his brown hair, making a show of considering his next move.  It wasn't as if there was any real point, but he had ambitions.  And, to realise his ambitions, he had to look good as well as be good.  The money he’d spent on his body - carving his face into a handsome mask - had not been wasted.  People would be watching him.  He could practically feel it.  

“Take us deeper into the system,” he ordered.

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said.

Christopher nodded, curtly.  Trieste wasn't particularly important, not in the grand scheme of things.  Stage-two colonies were rarely able to do more than shake their fists impotently when enemy starships moved through their system or took control of their high orbitals.  But Trieste was a Commonwealth world and so needed to be targeted.  It never seemed to have occurred to the settlers that neutrality would have been a far better option when war started looming over the sector.  They’d only been spared - so far - because they didn't have anything worth taking.

“Keep a sharp eye out for enemy ships,” Commissioner Chad Carsten said.  The pudgy man looked uncomfortable on the bridge, as if he knew he had no real right to be there.  His ugly appearance suited his mind.  “They might be trying to ambush us.”

“Of course,” Christopher said, blithely.  The odds against being intercepted were staggeringly high.  He was fairly confident that no one knew they were coming, but he’d made sure to come in on a random vector just to be certain.  “If they want to catch us, Commissioner, they’ll have to work at it.”

He kept his face expressionless with an effort as the tiny force moved deeper into the enemy system.  There were rumours - all sorts of wild rumours - about what had happened at Corinthian, ranging from a minor defeat to an enemy superweapon that had obliterated the entire navy.  The latter was obviously untrue, but the sudden arrival of the commissioners - and armed internal security detachments - suggested that something had gone spectacularly wrong.  Christopher was fairly sure the bastard didn't have the power to override him on his own bridge, yet he had no idea if that would hold up in a court-martial.  The other captains seemed inclined to bow and scrape before the commissioners rather than challenge them.

And none of them know anything about naval operations, he thought, bitterly.  It hadn't taken much questioning to prove to his own satisfaction that his commissioner had never been in the navy.  Some of them haven’t been in space before.

He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the display.  Squadron command at such a young age - even if it was a brevet command that could be cancelled at any moment - would definitely look good on his file.  So what if he was raiding a largely defenceless system?  So what if he was commanding five light cruisers and a courier boat?  It was a chance to make a mark, to prove to Admiral Singh that he could handle something more than a single warship in a squadron.  If he was lucky, it would get him promoted above his peers.  Admiral Singh, unlike the Imperial Navy, knew talent when she saw it.  God knew she’d had enough problems with backstabbing superiors in her life.

And then I can try to grasp a heavy cruiser or even a battleship, he thought.  He’d heard rumours, too, of new battleships coming out of the shipyards.  Modern battleships, rather than patched-up hulks.  Command of one of them would practically guarantee him flag rank, within five years.  And then I might have a real chance at rising even higher.

He smiled at the commissioner as the older man turned to look at him.  The bastard didn't like him, but Christopher didn't care.  He turned up the wattage of his smile, enjoying the faint displeasure on the commissioner’s face.  An enemy like that was a badge of honour.  Let him sit on the bridge and scowl disapprovingly at the crew, if he wished.  Admiral Singh would pay as little attention to him as she paid to supply bureaucrats who didn't seem to understand their true role in life.  Christopher was a naval hero and the commissioner ... was just a commissioner.

Better win the engagement first, he reminded himself, sharply.  The hours were ticking by slowly, too slowly.  There’s nothing to be gained by gloating too soon.

“Captain,” the sensor officer said.  She was young, so young that she didn't remember the Imperial Navy, but she was good.  The cynical side of Christopher’s mind insisted that the two facts were connected.  “Long-range scans are revealing the presence of two stations orbiting the planet.  They both appear to be standard colony support units.”

Christopher nodded, concealing his displeasure.  It was possible, he supposed, that the Commonwealth had bolted missile tubes or energy weapons to the orbital stations, but even if they had they wouldn't pose any real threat.  The stations could neither run nor hide.  Their crews were probably hastily evacuating even now, launching lifepods before his ships entered missile range.  He wouldn't blame them, either.  Staying on their stations would mean certain death.

“Communications, transmit a warning message,” he ordered.  “Inform them that we will destroy their stations in” - he glanced at the display - “forty minutes.  They have that long to evacuate.”

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said.

The commissioner turned to face Christopher.  “Are you warning them to evacuate?”

“Yes,” Christopher said, resisting the urge to insult the idiot openly.  He was on the damn bridge!  Was there some confusion about his orders?  “There’s nothing to be gained by slaughtering the station crews.”

“They might be technical experts,” the commissioner pointed out.  “We have standing orders to conscript all technical specialists wherever we find them.”

“They’ll have started to evacuate already,” Christopher said.  It was possible, he supposed, that the locals had missed his squadron, but he knew better than to count on it.  The Commonwealth’s sensors were alarmingly good.  “And even if we did take them with us, could they be trusted?”

He ignored the commissioner’s spluttering as he turned back to the display.  The stations were launching lifepods, dropping them into the planet’s atmosphere.  Their crews would have a bumpy ride and a worse landing, but at least they’d be alive.  Trieste wouldn't be too badly hurt by their visit, if only because they had nothing of any particular value.  The colony world would probably be left alone afterwards.

“Entering missile range, sir,” the tactical officer said.

“Take them out,” Christopher ordered.

He watched, feeling a flicker of irritated frustration, as the two missiles lanced towards their targets.  There was no counterbattery fire, nothing to slow them down; the warheads slammed home, detonating a moment later.  Pieces of debris, none of them large enough to survive their passage through the atmosphere, rocketed in all directions.  Trieste’s government would have some work to do, clearing up the mess, once the war was over.  Or maybe the Consortium would just divert a pair of warships to use the debris for target practice.

“Both targets destroyed, sir,” the tactical officer reported.

“Good shooting,” Christopher said, grudgingly.  He had no doubt that the media would turn the raid into a staggering victory, but anyone who knew anything about naval affairs would not be fooled.  Blowing up two stations wouldn't make a difference and he knew it.  And there was nothing on Trieste worth the effort of bombing.  “Helm, take us out on our planned vector.”

“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said.

Christopher scowled at the commissioner’s back as the older man strode across the bridge, his gaze flickering over consoles as if he knew what the displays actually meant.  They might as well have been glittering lights, Christopher suspected.  He’d heard whispered stories of commissioners who’d pressed the wrong buttons and accidentally blown up entire starships, although he was sure they were exaggerated.  Triggering the self-destruct device wasn't that easy.  But ...

The sensor console bleeped.  “Captain, I’m picking up five ships heading to Trieste,” the sensor officer said.  “Two warships, three freighters.”

Christopher rose and walked casually over to her console, burying the excitement beneath his professionalism.  This was more like it.  He’d always known he was lucky, but this time Lady Luck had outdone herself.  If it was a simulation, he would have been suspected of hacking the computers to rig matters in his favour.  The enemy ships would have to reverse course in order to escape, a difficult task with his squadron breathing down their necks.

“Two light cruisers,” the sensor officer added.  “They’re both pre-Fall designs.”

Christopher allowed himself an unpleasant smile.  Five on two ... he liked those odds.  A Commonwealth ship would be a nasty customer - he was sure their sensors and weapons would have been updated, even if there were limits to what could be done with their hulls - but he had them outnumbered and outgunned.  And while the warships might be able to turn and run, they’d have to abandon the freighters in order to escape.  Either way, he won.

“Helm, take us on an intercept course,” he ordered.  This would be a better victory, worthy of his time.  “Tactical, prepare to engage the enemy.”

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said.

The commissioner caught his eye.  “Is it wise to intercept the enemy ships?”

“Yes,” Christopher said, flatly.

“Our orders are to raid the planet and then get out,” the commissioner said.  “Captain, I urge you to reconsider.”

“We have the advantage,” Christopher insisted.  “And a chance to obliterate two enemy ships - perhaps five - at minimal risk.”

He returned to his command chair and sat down, studying the display.  The enemy ships had noticed them, too late.  They were taking evasive action, but they couldn't hope to alter course in time to escape.  Their commanders would be put in front of a wall and shot for this, if they ever returned home.  The Commonwealth might not even bother with the formality of a court-martial.

They probably expected the system to be safe, he thought.  Trieste had a handful of asteroid settlements, but no major interstellar ships - or starships - of its own.  They weren’t ready for trouble.

“Enemy warships are assuming combat formation,” the sensor officer reported.  “The freighters are still altering course.”

Christopher smiled, coldly.  The smart move, given how badly they’d been mouse-trapped, would have been to abandon the freighters and run.  No naval officer worth his salt would have liked the idea of fleeing, but there was no choice.  The freighters couldn't escape, not now.  There was no way they could build up the speed to reach the Phase Limit before Christopher’s ships caught up with them.  Their escorts were going to die for nothing.

“Launch two probes to keep an eye on them,” he ordered.  It was just possible that the freighters might go doggo, although it was unlikely to work.  His sensors already had a pretty solid lock on their positions.  “Tactical, inform the squadron.  I want rapid fire as soon as we enter missile range.”

“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.

The commissioner looked displeased.  “Wasting missiles ...”

“Better the missiles than the starships,” Christopher told him.  “Think of this as a cheap victory.”

He allowed his smile to widen as the squadron counted down the last few seconds to missile range.  The enemy ships were holding position, neither trying to flee nor attempting to surrender.  He saluted them, mentally, even though he knew they were wasting their lives and ships.  The enemy CO might deserve to be shot - his little fleet wasn't that far from the front - but his crews didn't deserve to die.  And yet ...

It’s too late, he told himself.  They can't escape now.

The display sparkled with glittering red icons.  Christopher leaned forward instinctively - he heard a sharp intake of breath from the commissioner - and silently counted the enemy missiles.  Fifty-seven ... they hadn't enhanced their throw weight, it seemed.  The light cruisers had probably been deemed too old for real service.  He didn't blame the Commonwealth, either.  The light cruisers would still be enough to deter pirates, even if the Wolves didn't see them as a threat.  It would be cheaper to build a brand new ship than refit the older vessels to modern standards.  

“Return fire,” he ordered, quietly.  “Point defence, prepare to engage.”

“Point defence standing by,” the tactical officer said.  His voice was calm.  “Datanet primed, ready to engage.  Enemy missiles entering engagement range in ten ... nine ...”

Christopher braced himself as the missiles slipped into his engagement envelope.  He’d drilled his crews relentlessly, pitting them against simulated missiles that were twice as fast and half the size of the latest enemy missiles.  They’d done well, in simulations; now, it seemed they were doing well in the real world too.  Dozens of enemy missiles flew into a tightly-coordinated web of fire and evaporated, blasted into dust before they had a chance to go active.  They didn't even have any decoy missiles or penetration aids to help them to slip through the defences.  The handful of missiles that reached their targets didn't do enough damage to matter.

He turned his attention to the missiles his ships had launched and felt his smile grow wider.  The Commonwealth CO had drilled his crews too, he noted, but they just didn't have the firepower to make a significant difference.  He’d fired too many missiles for them to take them all out before it was too late.  Nuclear warheads slammed into their targets and detonated, laser beams tore into undefended hulls ...

“Target One destroyed,” the tactical officer reported.  Powerhouse rocked as a missile got through her defences and slammed into her hull.  “Target Two has taken heavy damage ... she’s launching lifepods.”

“Invite her to surrender,” Christopher ordered.  It was unlikely they’d recover anything worth having from the hulk - the Commonwealth officers would make sure to destroy their datacores and any advanced technology before they surrendered - but it would look good in the media.  The reporters would have a field day.  “Tell her ...”

Target Two vanished from the display.  Christopher sighed, telling himself he shouldn’t be too annoyed.  He’d scored a tiny, but important victory.  A few minutes either way and he might have lost the opportunity to intercept the enemy ships ...

“Deploy shuttles to pick up the lifepods,” he ordered.  “And order the enemy freighters to surrender.”

“Aye, Captain,” the communications officer said.

Christopher wondered, briefly, just what the freighters were actually carrying.  Trieste would need to import all sorts of machined products, but the Commonwealth was in the middle of a full-scale war.  He couldn’t imagine Avalon or Corinthian churning out farming equipment or mining tools or whatever else Trieste might need when there were more important matters on hand.  Unless ... perhaps they’d uncovered one of the Empire’s old stockpiles.  It was quite possible.

“The freighters are surrendering, Captain,” the communications officer reported.  “They’re shutting down their drives and opening their hatches.”

“Dispatch naval infantry to take possession,” Christopher ordered.  He considered, briefly, dumping the prisoners on Trieste, then decided it would be dangerous.  The Commonwealth had a manpower shortage.  Taking the POWs back to Wolfbane wouldn't have that much of an impact, but every little bit helped.  “And then set course for home.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Christopher grinned at the commissioner, enjoying the sour look on the man’s face.  They’d scored a victory ... a tiny victory, true, but still a victory.  The Commonwealth’s shipping crisis wouldn't be made any better, either, by the loss of three freighters.  If nothing else, they’d have to redeploy escort units to the sector, if they wanted to send more freighters along the front lines.  There weren't many raiding squadrons out there, but the Commonwealth wouldn't know that ...

He watched the shuttles detaching, heading to the enemy ships.  The crews would be treated well, of course.  Who knew?  They might decide to join the Wolves.  There was certainly no need to make their imprisonment unpleasant, was there?  The ships themselves were the prizes, along with their cargo ... whatever it was.  He’d make sure the prisoners were well-treated until after the war.

“Captain, we received a manifest from the first freighter,” the communications officer reported.  “They’re carrying farming supplies: equipment, tools and bioengineered seeds.”

“Doubtful,” the commissioner said.  He sneered at the communication officer’s back.  “It’s a cover for something else.”

Christopher was inclined to agree, for once.  Farming supplies in the middle of a war?  He shrugged, keeping his doubts off his face.  They’d find out when the ships were carefully searched, just to be sure.  Who knew?  Perhaps they were farming supplies.  If the seeds had been bioengineered specifically for Trieste, which was possible, they’d probably be useless elsewhere.  He might have to decide to dump them on the planet or not.

“Tell the infantry to check,” he ordered.  There was no point in telling the commissioner that he thought the asshole might be right.  “We’ll find out then.”

A victory, he told himself, firmly.  They'd destroyed two enemy warships and captured three freighters, all for minimal damage.  The repairs wouldn't take that long.  A victory we can boast about, no matter how small.

His smile widened.  Admiral Singh would be pleased.

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