There was a long pause, the image standing there silent. “Erik, be careful. I don’t know what is going on, but it’s probably worse than either of us knows about.” He smiled, letting his frown fade for a moment. “Take care, my friend.” The image flickered and disappeared.
The room was silent for a minute. Finally Sarah asked, “What are you going to do?”
He turned to face her, his eyes ablaze. “I’m going to Arcadia. Today.”
Chapter 3
Gavin Stark’s office was palatial, a testament to the immense power wielded by its occupant. It offered a kilometer high view of the Washbalt skyline, and while it was equipped with a sophisticated technology suite through which he practiced his trade, in many ways it was a look into the past. Stark favored antiques, the more priceless the better, and the exquisite wood paneling and furniture created an interesting anomaly in the ultramodern setting.
The head of Alliance security leaned back in his giant desk chair, a painstakingly restored relic that allegedly had belonged to a pre-Alliance British head of state. It had cost a fortune, but Stark didn’t care. His position gave him access to virtually unlimited funds, and the fact that almost none of it was actually his amused him. He had gotten to where he was by taking what he wanted, and he didn’t intend to stop now. Not with so much work left to do.
There was a Directorate meeting scheduled later that afternoon, but Stark generally made the decisions beforehand, sometimes allowing the others to feel that they had participated, but rarely listening much to what they had to say. The previous Number One had been weak, at least to Stark’s way of thinking. He’d delegated considerable power to the others, having decided the job was just too big for one man. In the end he had been destroyed by a cabal of those he’d included in his decision making, those he had trusted. Few people knew for sure where he was, though Stark himself did – it was Stark who’d chopped him up and fed the pieces into the power plant of one of Washbalt’s nondescript apartment blocks.
Unlike his predecessor, Stark wasn’t willing to concede that anything was too much for him to handle, and his pathological paranoia wouldn’t allow him to share authority even if he thought he needed the backup. He would never put too much power into another’s hands, thinking they would only use it later to destroy him. He’d seen it happen, and he was determined it wouldn’t happen to him.
The Directorate consisted of the coldest, most ambitious, and least morally constrained operatives in the Alliance, but Stark was a breed apart and ruled them all with sheer terror. None of the others could match his utter brilliance or reptilian coldness. Among a nest of amoral vipers, Gavin Stark had no equal. None dared challenge him and, since the war, he’d cemented his already almost-total control over the entire Directorate.
He’d even used the defection of the former Number Three, a near disaster that had almost slipped past him, to instill greater terror in his subordinates. Andres Carillon had been feared almost as much as Stark, and only a few people in Alliance Intelligence knew the real reason Carillon had been killed. Stark allowed the others to assume he’d done away with him in a power struggle, sending a message to anyone else who might harbor unhealthy ambitions.
Stark had one confidante, a friend even, if true friendship was possible for a creature like him. Jack Dutton was Number Two on the Directorate. The Chair had been in his grasp, but old and tired, he’d stepped aside for his younger, stronger protégé. Dutton was a trusted and valued counselor to Stark, a relationship made possible by the old man’s long years of mentorship and his lack of ambition to move up the chain.
The two sat together now, discussing the status of a number of projects. Stark had poured himself a drink from a bottle of single malt Scotch so expensive it could have paid 100 Cogs for a month. He’d started to pour one for Dutton, but the old man waved him off, taking only a cup of black coffee. Number Two had been a respectable drinker in his day, but age was finally catching him. He had to cut back somewhere, so he couldn’t start with the Scotch, at least not at 11am.
“The colonial situation is deteriorating more quickly than we’d originally anticipated.” Stark looked over at his friend as he spoke. The old man had really aged since the end of the war. The rejuvs weren’t working anymore, and despite the best that modern medicine could do, it was obvious Dutton was down to his last year or two. Stark would miss him; when the old man was gone he’d be truly alone. Always cold blooded, he thought, I’m going to miss his knowledge too. Dutton knew where the bodies were buried, probably because he’d put most of them there himself…or at least provided the shovel.
“Yes.” Dutton’s voice was weak, but it was obvious his mind was as sharp as ever. “There are too many retired military settled on the frontier, especially with the recent demobilizations. Even lacking weaponry and support, they think they can beat anything we throw at them.” He paused, clearing his throat. “We shouldn’t be surprised; we taught them to think that way. And they just won the biggest war ever fought in space.”
“They did. With 140 trillion credits and the productive capacity of the entire Alliance behind them.” Stark’s voice was superficially emotionless, but Dutton could detect the undercurrent of derision.
Stark tended to view the colonials as idealistic fools who would quickly cave when pressured. Dutton was less sure of that; he was afraid they were going to prove to be a much more formidable adversary than anyone expected. “Don’t underestimate these people, Gavin. If it comes to open rebellion, we’re going to have our hands full dealing with it, especially if it spreads. It’s not going to be easy to control a hundred worlds if all of them are fighting us.”
“I understand what you’re saying, old friend.” Stark never discounted Dutton’s take on anything, but he was convinced he could handle whatever the colonies threw at him. “But we’ve been working on this for years, now. We’ve subverted the Marine Corps. Indeed, one of our own is now the Commandant. We’ve assembled dossiers on the problem officers; when it is time for the purge we will be ready.” Stark tried to suppress a self-satisfied smile. Flipping one of the of the Marines’ top commanders was an achievement of such magnitude he still had to remind himself he’d managed it. The deed had required a carefully constructed combination of blackmail and bribery, but in the end he’d seen it done. Soon he would see the fruit of that effort. Those pompous Marines would never see it coming.
Stark leaned back and took a drink. Dutton looked over at him thoughtfully but said nothing, so he continued. “We have stripped ships from the navy and created our own Directorate force, answerable to this Chair only.” He paused. “And shortly we will move against the naval command, securing our control over it as well.” He grinned evilly. “And that will be that.”
Dutton frowned. “I like the naval plan. I helped you create it, but don’t assume that it is fullproof. There are many senior naval officers out there, and not many of them will gracefully accept orders to bombard Alliance worlds or fight other Alliance forces.” He was been losing his voice, and he paused to clear his throat. “Civil wars and rebellions are unpredictable things. Unrest can be sporadic or it can spread rapidly. The military’s response is also difficult to determine.” He took a sip from his coffee, still trying to sooth his dry throat. “You must look to history here. We have not had to deal with significant unrest in well over a century. The middle classes are too terrorized of losing what they have, and the Cogs are so beaten down they have no capacity to rise up.”