by Blaze Ward
Go to Ramsey and help them with what had appeared to be a minor pirate incursion at the time. Except that it led her to Sarmarsh IV. And then Petron. Arnulf. Emmerich. Warlock.
Daneel Ishikura. The first man she had ever loved. The first one who had looked at what Jessica expected out of a partner, then turned himself into it, no questions asked. Transformed himself from a barbarian pirate captain into an Aquitaine gentleman, because that was the price of her love.
At least in those days.
Before Torsten.
She was sad that Torsten could not be here: to witness this, to celebrate it, to hold her now when she just wanted quiet.
He would watch the recording at some point and celebrate with her vicariously. That would be enough for now, because one of these days, she would be done, and the two of them could run away from everything and find happiness together.
Because Jessica knew she was done. Not burned out, but she would never be promoted again. First Centurion would be the place where her career ended.
There would be other accolades and rewards later, both Republic and Imperial. Jessica had no doubts that Casey would probably try to make her a Duke or something at some point, just to set a precedent, and to say thank you. The Senate would be required to match such extravagance if that happened, lest they be accused by historians of penury.
None of it mattered.
In that room, only Denis had known. Marcelle didn’t count, because she had been with Jessica for more than twenty-five years at this point. She was another sister, like Moirrey. Another auntie to Slava and Sasha’s children: Ruhal, Margaret, and not-so-little-anymore Juan-Pablo, who was likely to grow up in green, like Jessica. He didn’t have that spark, but he had the burning desire, and that might carry him to Command Centurion, one of these days.
Denis had brushed against her side at one point in the crush and whispered something that told her he knew the truth.
“Last time, Jess,” he had said as a way to keep her spirits up to get through two hundred other well-wishers who all wanted to say hello and shake her hand.
Yes, Denis had known. But they had spoken daily for more than a year, and at least weekly for a decade. He was as much a brother as Slava, if not more.
This was the last time she would go through such a circus. She would win the war and then retire.
Funny, it was so utterly anti-climactic, at that. She had command. Everyone here would follow her orders, even if she had stayed with four stripes. That was the Aquitaine way. Just as everyone was a centurion together, everyone could be command centurions together, at which point you sorted things out based on time in service and size of vessel, plus force of personality.
Denis had been accepted by Alber’, Robbie, and Kigali because he commanded Auberon, even when he was merely a Senior Centurion and Jessica was technically the Command Centurion. But she had been acting as a Fleet Lord in those days, and the boys knew it.
Held to it.
Held her up to achieve the impossible, time and again, because that was who they were.
Jessica didn’t have the words herself, but she knew that at some point she would need to track down a few historians and make sure those men got their stories put down correctly. Too many fanciful tales would center on the Mighty Jessica Keller and forget that Alber’ d’Maine had sailed into the very face of death at First Ballard to protect her. Or Kigali running the hard gauntlet between a battleship and a battlecruiser on that same day, while flying a Cutter/Revenue with hardly any firepower, just to distract the bad guys for long enough that Jessica could win.
Later historians would overlook the fact that Denis Jež and Nina Vanek had fought both Auberons themselves in all her battles.
Jessica looked down at that fifth stripe on her arm, tacked with a sticky backing today, so that Marcelle could sew it on tomorrow and make it permanent. She touched it once, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Jessica Keller was a force now, officially and not just by personality.
She made a note to herself for tomorrow. To send letters off to both Em and Petia, requesting that official historians be assigned the task of recording things now, perhaps even coming out to the fleet to witness events first hand. Not for her, but for the men and women who should not be forgotten, even as they could themselves vicariously be rewarded by being part of First Expeditionary Fleet during The Expedition.
Emmerich had already probably written as definitive a biography of her early career as anyone was capable of. She just wondered how many more volumes he would need to add to complete it.
The only others who might know more were her and Nils, and she knew her former mentor would probably take most of her secrets to the grave. As was proper. She had kept her crush on the man secret for thirty years, a juvenile infatuation that nevertheless formed her adult opinion of what a man should be like.
Eventually, he had become her second father, after Miguel, teaching her how to be a success in her chosen career, where many scholars ranked him perhaps the second best fleet commander alive, behind only his more famous student.
Jessica snickered to herself for a moment as she considered blackmailing Em into writing an authoritative biography of Nils. They had sparred many times when they were the young Turks on opposite sides of the border. Nobody else could probably do justice to the topic.
Jessica reached out her left hand and touched that fifth stripe again. It represented all she had ever wanted out of life, but now that she was here, it was barely a blip. So odd. She had so many other things that she wanted out of the rest of her life, that becoming First Centurion of the Republic of Aquitaine Navy barely mattered.
She had what she needed to perhaps win this war, but she really wanted to go home.
Home.
Where was home?
Jessica had been on the deck of a warship for most of the last thirty years.
Ladaux was her birthplace.
St. Legier was a place that drew her heart.
Skuodas had given her Torsten, though she had never had a chance to visit and thank them.
But Petron was home. That was the siren that called her. Those stubborn, opinionated, chauvinistic, barbarian pirates. That place had also produced Shiori Ness, Cho Ayaka Nakamura, Yan Bedrov, and Pops Nakamura. Desianna Indah-Rodriguez. David Rodriguez.
And Daneel.
Yes. She was a First Centurion, and she was fighting a war for the future of mankind, but Jessica really just wanted to go home.
Chapter IV
Common Era: 13449, Day 177. Winterhome. Palace of the Eldest.
The Holding is a function of the Scholars.
Ve Marak Entruk Han hummed the rest of the ditty under his breath, placing Scholars, Technicians, Warriors, and Artisans into their respective castes as the structure uplifting The Holding and paving the way for the eventual conquest of space back into a single galaxy-spanning, harmonious whole, removed from the primitive barbarisms that one found under every overturned rock.
Briefly, he marveled that he could still sing along with the tune he had probably originally heard more than nine decades ago, in the first crèche after being weaned. But what was The Holding, but a structure of Scholars, even for the Minister of the Left Interior?
Han checked his image in the mirror as he unfolded both mind and body from the daily meditation that kept him young and sharp. Tall and spare, with thin, white hair and skin that had taken on almost a translucent, golden quality, like a dwarf star.
He wore a proper set of four robes, reversing the traditional pattern of darkest to lightest. His outermost was a lapis today, coming all the way in to indigo, closest to his being, tied off with a white obi. After ninety-four years, he was willing to work against tradition in some ways.
To do anything else was to allow the body and the mind to become calcified, which was as bad an outcome for the body as The Holding. Too many Scholars simply accepted things, having stopped asking themselves why something is the way it is.
He s
miled to himself at the conceit, understanding that The Eldest had chosen to extend his reign as Minister of the Left Interior for one more year, already nearly a decade past the age when most Scholars and Ministers were compelled to step down.
It was as important to regularly inject fresh blood into the ruling castes as it was to observe and generally obey the traditions that had brought them all thus.
He exited his sparse cabin, done up with walls lighter than seafoam and a few sumi-e pieces of art that soothed his mind, to emerge into the corridor, walking with careful deliberation that reflected his years, if not his physical fitness.
Today, it was not necessary to jog laps around the waist of this space station in the company of much-younger Warriors, just to remain in shape. Or to show off.
He passed through the four, layered rings of security separating all Scholars from the presence of The Eldest and that being’s inner machinery. As Scholars spoke for The Eldest, Warriors protected him, and Technicians performed their esoteric worship that kept the ancient parts still working.
Past the last portal, he entered the Chamber of The Mandarins and took his place at the left interior, last to arrive as befit the First Minister of the government. Today, they faced outward, speaking for The Eldest rather than hearing his wisdom.
The silk pillows he sat upon had been replaced recently, new enough that he felt taller as he sat, more than just the erect carriage he maintained. It added to the geniality of his mood as he awaited developments.
The others were here and settled. Ko Quebwas Polen Nim was on his left today as Minister of the Right Interior, as they had their faces and hearts turned away from The Eldest, while Nu Sheelan Robar Shil was on his right and Wa Dahnna Lomek Gar, Minister of the Right Facet, was on the far end, beyond Polen Nim.
Han took their measure with a glance, and then located the Warrior standing just inside the door, a man chosen for his ability to remain almost invisible when not needed, and silent the rest of the time.
“Send in the First Director,” Han instructed the guard, falling back into himself to meditate on The Great Plan.
The First Director joined them quickly, obviously waiting in a nearby chamber to be called. Han found the man almost interchangeable with others of his kind that had held the position over the years. This one only stood out in Han’s mind because he was the first one to be born after a very young Minister of the Eighth Rank, as Han had been fifty-six years ago, proposed the changes to the Great Plan that saw Fribourg become the primary thrust of The Holding’s expansion.
In other ways, he was a typical Warrior, if something more of a brutalitarian than others had usually been. Of medium height and a squat build, Au Honek Trilben Lor embodied all that the Warriors aspired to be, and just underlined why they were not Scholars.
The man came to attention crisply, and then bowed fully to The Mandarins and The Eldest behind them.
“What news from Samara?” Han asked formally.
The next phase of the Great Plan would see a massive naval force, probably combining elements of both the Fribourg navy and their dangerous, new ally Aquitaine, to unleash an assault on the Chéngbǎo, the starbase Ural, in an attempt to overwhelm the fortress, once and for all.
It was, of course, a trap. Samara was already the second-most-heavily defended star system in The Holding, behind only Winterhome itself, because those barbarians kept attacking it in stupidly-straightforward ways.
Today, there were two full battlefleets hiding at Samara, in addition to the reinforced defenders. Fribourg would arrive and initiate combat, only to find themselves trapped deep in the gravity well of the planet when more defenders suddenly appeared above them from the darkness.
They would be broken, and the psychological impact of two such crushing defeats in short order would cause the so-called Fribourg Empire to unravel. All of Han’s predictions and The Eldest’s modeling of human nature had laid it out in great detail.
Han noticed that the First Director had gone slightly pale, rather than speaking immediately. He turned his Mandarin’s eye on the man.
“None, First Minister,” the Warrior finally replied in a quieter-than-usual tone.
“None?” Han was surprised. His three comrades were as well.
They could not have attacked and won. Fribourg lacked the ships to overwhelm the defenders at Samara so heavily that no news would escape. And it was long past the time that the news would have arrived, even by a regular courier, to say nothing of the specialized Hammerheads that carried the orders of The Eldest to all Ministers.
“None,” the Warrior agreed. “There has been other news from Samara, but no attack. Instead, there has been a more troubling raid.”
Han felt blood begin to pool, heavy and chilled, in his belly at those words.
“Where?” Han demanded in a voice like a blade in the night.
“Severnaya Zemlya,” came the reply. “Capital of the Altai sector where the woman Keller has recently focused her attacks.”
Quickly, the man described the combination strike, first hitting Yenisei and then pouncing on Severnaya Zemlya when the defenders were pulled forward to intercept an expected second attack at Ninagirsu.
One that never came, as the wolves instead struck inward, rather than returning home.
“There’s more,” the Warrior said as Han and the other Mandarins absorbed the audacity of Keller’s moves.
“More?” Han asked, filled with sudden dread.
“The course the barbarians took after striking Severnaya Zemlya, First Minister,” the First Director said.
“Well?” Han demanded.
“It was a reciprocal course for Winterhome,” the man said.
Han felt the chill in his blood turn to pure rage. Something had gone very desperately wrong with The Plan. Worse, the Altai and Lena sectors had been stripped of much of their defenses to reinforce Samara.
Keller had not taken the obvious bait. Had ignored it completely on several occasions, in spite of the surety of the Warriors.
“Have you reinforced the local fleets?” Polen Nim, the Minister of the Right Interior demanded in her harsh, alto tone.
“We have begun, Second Minister,” the Warrior turned his attention to her now. “But we do not believe that there is much Keller could to do threaten us here, given the forces in-system. Scouts are out looking in greater force than at any time in the last century.”
“It is well,” Han announced. “Continue. And leave us.”
Han suddenly had a feeling that the entire Holding might be at risk, as he had underestimated the woman and her hold on Imperial minds and fleets.
Who was Keller Marie Jessica, that her own mortal enemy, the Fribourg Empire, would cast away centuries of tradition and socialization, to fight an entirely new way at her demand?
And those ships she had brought with her. Alien naval architecture, at odds with everything Fribourg had ever built before. It was as though a designer had been at St. Legier during the first raid, and convinced the even-more-barbarous Aquitaine to completely change the way they thought and built.
Only now was The Holding able to begin fielding the new Tigershark variant of the Mako, after the standard design had proven to be so vulnerable to those changes, at places like Trusski.
“Have we gone wrong?” Han asked his compatriots after the First Director had departed. “Will they ignore Samara while they attack deeper into The Holding, where we have thinned our forces?”
Nu Sheelan Robar Shil, the woman who was the Minister of the Left Facet, spoke up now.
“NovLao has been psychologically broken,” she said. “We could afford to reduce the intensity of our war on that front, to bring forces closer to the interior. Perhaps we need to rethink our overall strategy in light of Keller and this new Emperor. Both represent radical changes in the traditional, patriarchal culture of Fribourg.”
Han nodded, turning inward to face the great wall behind them. It was a screen nearly four meters across and three
tall. The Eldest was not behind that wall, but Han still thought of it as his Temple.
“Eldest, what is your guidance?” Han asked in a careful voice.
A face appeared before them, giant on the screen, cunning and ruthless, after his kind. Brown and gray hair swept back in a widows peak with just a hint of curl. Angular planes to cheekbones, jaw, and forehead. A trimmed Van Dyke, more salt than pepper. Eyes that seemed to bore through you like lasers.
It was not a human face, as their God was an ancient, Sentient computer that had been sent to Winterhome with a colonizing effort just as the Concordancy War erupted and destroyed everything else. But the very Gods had smiled on them and Winterhome had been spared the devastation of the galaxy.
When the older pantheon passed, only Buran remained.
“Retain Samara’s forces,” the being spoke in tones that only sounded human, a man’s low tenor that seemed to scrape the inside of Han’s head, even after so many decades in its presence. “Augment Winterhome’s. Ninagirsu and Severnaya Zemlya must be enhanced. NovLao can be ignored for a decade, as they have been nearly broken. Increase the construction of the Tigershark model and the Megalodon, ending the Mako and Carcharias. I will produce a new Hammerhead design to be a consort to both, to counter the new fleet Keller retains. She is only human, and a statistical anomaly that cannot be predicted, except in hindsight. But she will only retain her abilities for two decades more, at most. We can fight to a stalemate for that time, until lesser commanders replace her.”
Han bowed forward until his forehead touched the floor at the metaphorical feet of The Eldest. It had been a good plan then, and The Eldest was not placing the failures at his feet, to tarnish a rich career in service.
Keller Marie Jessica was simply what other Scholars called a Black Swan. An occurrence so utterly random that it proved the predictability of mankind, the other nine sigma of results. A genius commander, given authority at the very moment when her contributions could do the most to alter the course of the galaxy.