Contre-Amiral Thouars did not commit suicide. He was murdered.
Who am I, how do I know this and why am I writing this?
I am Achille Poirot and I am the surveillance operator aboard the RNS La Rochelle. We live in a time of troubles, and any rashness can cost a head -- or about seven billion of them. Maybe I will not speak of this for a week, maybe for my entire lifetime, but it will stay written and it will be uncovered when suitable.
Some say that King Charles sold his soul to the devil so his armadas could fight so well. On that day, it seemed that the devil had abandoned us and God came to settle the accounts. La Rochelle was part of the Dax Fleet, but we were in the reserves, so we didn't see much fighting ourselves, although our experienced crew was impatient to make an impact. But I did see a fleet of dozens of Triumphs heading into the New London atmosphere from around the Dax. They were making preparations for a ground invasion, I thought. But one by one, the little dots of light that they became when they let their beams out, about the size of candle flames from where I was looking, one by one, they burst wider for a moment, and then snuffed out. And then we received the order: cruise speed to the Leeds Jumphole. I don't remember any of them coming back.
Everyone was on their maximum capacity to make the ship move as fast as she could, and we were constantly harassed by pursuing Sirian snubcraft. Crossing the Southampton Debris Field was easy for us, but the Dax had to literally punch through, with turret fire, and with her hull when her shield had failed. No one said anything during this time, except what was necessary to keep the ship running. The atmosphere was like this: confused, certainly confused, hectic and everyone's hands were full of business. The Dax stopped and stood guard when we jumped through, but we were ordered to head to Planet Leeds.
When we left the smog cloud, I was able to see what was going on. Everyone with access to a window was. A great number of Triumphs stood above, firing beams at the planet. This wasn't preparation for a ground invasion, the planet was already ours. This was genocide! Seven billion people! Mostly Sirians, but also millions of our own, for sure! The ship made a sharp turning at this moment and headed back into the smog cloud. Not literally back, actually, not towards the Dax, but only into the smog cloud, towards some undetermined destination. We stopped after about an hour of wandering. Thouars then spoke to us via the sound system, and ordered us all to leave our posts and meet in the messroom. My soul was devoured by the boiling sea of ominous curiosity, and forbidden questions were what remained, as they floated out to the surface.
When the captain came in, those who weren't silently staring at the floor in disappointment and melancholy, went silent. He didn't even have to ask. He addressed us all with a short speech, which I don't remember verbatim, but I can rephrase it in my words here:
"Brave soldiers. Not because of you, we have been defeated."
He made a pause here, to let it sink in.
"The Dax is all that remains of our great armada. Ile de France is full of Council fleets. There are rumours that His Majesty has fled New Paris. And as you have seen, our command is playing the strategy of very literally scorched earth. There are billions of civilians down there, and some of them are our own colonists, and there are our soldiers, too. There is a general mutiny and some of our Triumph crews refused to execute the order, and we have been commanded to board them and seize control, or destroy them from space before they can leave and defect to the Council. I will now ask you three questions.
Everyone willing to fire at our own men, raise your hand."
I thought I saw Capitaine de Frégate Louis-Philippe Marat, Thouars' right hand and the man who stood next to him together with the rest of the bridge staff, start raising his hand, but he stopped when he noticed that no one else around him was.
"Everyone willing to have the blood of a whole planet on your soul, raise your hand."
No one.
"Everyone willing to die for nothing, raise your hand."
Again, no one. Some men's faces turned brighter, as they probably thought we would all make it out, no matter by what means.
"My duty, as the captain of this ship, is to be your caretaker and make sure that as many of you as possible survive action. The Council will soon take over in Gallia. All of this is in vain. I am setting course back to Gallia Proper, so all of you can return to your homes, wives, husbands and children."
I was happy and I was not at the same time. It would be a story I would be ashamed of, and never tell. But I would live and get to see Yvette again. No, that's wishful thinking. It's been years, and Yvette is no Penelope. But the captain, no, for him there was truly nothing. I've personally witnessed him committing acts that the Council would label as war crimes. What he was doing now was more heroic than anything he had done in battle -- as soon as we'd touch land, he would be arrested, trialed, fairly or not, and executed. But we, as mere performers of orders, would probably be acquitted.
Everyone went back on their posts after this. There was no confusion, though no one was in a hurry either. But in maybe two hours, while we were still in the cloud, I saw something suspicious on one of the security cameras. Marat and another man, one of the engine room staff whose name I didn't know but whose face I recognized, convened in one of the pantries where we kept brooms and alike. I had no surveillance there. What was the captain's right hand doing in a pantry? And why would he even speak to a mere mechanic?
I had a hunch that I should tell this to the captain. But he didn't like to be disturbed for such minor things. I'd probably have to clean all the toilets with the mops from that very pantry if this was nothing. Who knows, maybe these two just loved each other.
I had already stopped thinking about this when I caught the glimpse of that same mechanic on a camera recording a part of the engine room. He seemed to be fixing something. This was unusual. He did have passage to the engine room, but he was an electrician and usually stationed in the ammunition magazine, as his job was to make sure there were no short circuits and all the ammunition deployment systems worked smoothly. Suddenly, he ran away. Then there was a bright flash, and then my camera stopped working. The ship was no longer vibrating, so I knew the engines were now off.
A minute later I saw this same man appearing on the engine room entrance, as if waiting for something or someone. Then Thouars left the bridge, as I saw on one of the cameras in the corridor. I wanted to warn him, but it seemed that the ship's sound system was off, possibly due to sabotage. A marine squad then joined the captain, and formed a column behind him, on whose head was no other but Marat. They all entered the engine room and formed a line in front of the mechanic. He procedurally saluted the captain, but instead of a report, drew out a pistol and shot Thouars in the torso. Thouars collapsed. But then something I did not expect happened. Marat was the first to draw his firearm, before any of the marines, as if he had expected this, and shot the mechanic in the head. Some of the engine room staff were present and saw this as well.
When I saw them enter the pantry together, the mechanic and Marat, I thought they were conspiring. But why would Marat defend the captain then, and kill the mechanic?
Following this event, Via the sound system, which functioned now, Marat called us all to meet again, in the same messroom. There he presented us both bodies and notified us that he was, as the highest ranking officer present, in command of the ship. But after he said that the La Rochelle would return to the battlefield and that no one was going home, there was disgruntlement among the crew. As we were, without further word, he sent us back to our positions, but I could sense that something was brewing.
My colleague, Jacques Pompadour, then took over the shift while I went to sleep. I doubt he noticed much. He only applied to this job so he could have a view over the women's quarters. I caught him napping when I returned.
A camera that wasn't in the engine room was shut down, that's the first thing I noticed when I returned. It was the camera that monitored the barracks. That is where we kept all the light arms. Something must have been happening there, so I alerted Marat.
I was right. The next two hours, the crew spent killing each other. I locked and barricaded my door. Marat had the surprise factor on his side and his men prevailed.
I should not have alerted him. No, this is not because I would have returned home otherwise. This is because of something I found later.
Pompadour is somewhat of a voyeur. He was nearly caught once when he tried to install a camera behind the mirror in the women's toilet. I already knew that specific pantry where the meeting took place was often entered by female and male crewmen together, in couples. If he knew this, he must have at least tried to install some surveillance there. So, I fumbled over his storage of recordings for about an hour. And I did find a certain file. It carried no name, but only a heart symbol. And it was coded.
Normally I would stop here, coded or not. But now I had to employ what unenviable hacking skills I had. It was a simple code, but I still had to browse the neural net to find how to break it. I skipped all the recordings before the date and time I needed, of course.
It was audio only. I suppose I should have expected that, since there was no light source inside the pantry. Thanks to this, I can precisely relay what Marat and the mechanic said.
Marat: Lock the door. (The sound of door locking).
Mechanic: Yes?
Marat: My sources have confirmed where exactly the king is. It will be a common Vache, an EFL one, too, so our comrades don't even think of stopping it. Our cell must activate immediately, take over La Rochelle and intercept the royal carriage.
Mechanic: Understood. What do you need me to do?
Marat: Take a cruise disruptor warhead and detonate it on an engine. Find good cover before it detonates, we might need you alive, but don't leave the engine section. Then call the admiral there, if those that survive inside don't already. I will follow him with an escort of marines, but they will be picked and loyal personally to me. Since the engine section is soundproof, no one will notice anything. I will have already taken care of the video surveillance. We shall dispose of Thouars together, and then the rest of the crew as well, virtually in their sleep. Operating La Rochelle may be difficult with the men we'll have left, but even a couple of turrets will be enough to destroy the transport and defend from its escorts. They are likely very few, not to attract attention. Are you in?
Mechanic: I will do my duty, or die trying.
Marat: Don't screw it up. (The sound of door unlocking and opening).
After having listened to this, I checked whether the recording that showed the two men entering the pantry was still there. And I was right, it had been deleted. Pompadour will do anything he's told, without putting thought into it. Does Marat know that I am not like Pompadour? Does he suspect I might have glimpsed the pantry meeting? Will he dispose of me just to keep it secret?
But the real question is, who is Marat? What are his intentions? He is obviously a member of a Council or Maquis cell. Or isn't? If he is, then why did he sabotage his own plan himself, and turn the ship back? No, this doesn't add up. A double agent? A triple agent? An infectee? ...A demon? Has the king really fled? Did the order to destroy Leeds really come from him? Who is responsible for the defeat in New London? What is going on?
I will lay low, serve him for now and monitor everything. And hide this text as good as I can. Perhaps even after I answer the question that overshadows and symbolizes all questions that matter: Who is Louis-Philippe Marat!?
![[Image: 396AUfe.png]](https://i.imgur.com/396AUfe.png)