by Blaze Ward
“Very good,” Jessica replied. “Have Dieter Jost fly the long route to get to you then. Junkyard Chihuahua will be meeting up with me, so the station and the tug will be about the only things in orbit when you and your squadron arrive.”
“My squadron, Jessica?” Vo asked. “I’m Army.”
“You’re in command, zu Arlo,” she said firmly. “Dieter Jost. Akatsuki. Archangel. Packmule. All three of the Imperial cargo transports. Mendocino and Duncan will be staying with me, and we’re making a high-speed run as soon as you clear to JumpSpace.”
Jessica watched the impact of her words on Vo’s face. Once, he would have shut down all external emotions, but something had indeed changed about the man in the last few months. She hoped it meant good news, but couldn’t ask until he was ready to talk.
If he ever was.
Putting him in charge would be the way to remind him that he could do good in the galaxy, even as the mere commander of the first Aquitaine-style legion in Fribourg’s Imperial Land Forces.
As if Vo zu Arlo could be merely anything.
He nodded at her now, eyes abstract with distance as he began planning. She dropped him out of the loop, but kept Tom and Denis live.
“Assume we’re breaking orbit in three hours,” Jessica ordered. “Mendocino has already cross-loaded all the stolen construction equipment to the Imperial transports for food, so we’re going to come in hot to a corner of the system where Hans Bransch and the Chihuahua should be waiting. Then the fun part begins.”
“What happens if Buran has finally shown up to do something about Mansi?” Tom asked.
“That’s why I’m taking all the warships with me,” Jessica said. “So we can kill things.”
Chapter LXXIV
Date of the Republic July 7, 403 IFV Indianapolis, JumpSpace
“Dearest Love,” Jessica wrote.
“We are deep in JumpSpace now, having successfully added another chapter to the terrible and mischievous legend of Jessica Keller. Vo seems intent, with the help of his cast of rogues, to top the achievements of The Long Raid. Or perhaps draws inspiration from them.
At Barnaul, the casualties from a full planetary invasion amounted to less than fifty people, all told. And in the aftermath, we so utterly devastated the colony that The Eldest will probably be best served simply transporting everyone we left behind to another world to start over.
The planet is dry and hot. The water table, such as it is, is shallow in places, but not near the mine itself, which allowed them to dig deeply into the ground, going more than two kilometers in places. At such depths, the heat is actually significant enough that cooling systems are required for humans to operate for any length of time.
Combat engineers spent several days dismantling all of the systems that drained the mine of water seepage, then stripped the place of every bit of piping and wiring they could steal, before pushing megatons of rock ore back into the mine shaft and making liberal use of high explosives to loosen everything else.
We lacked a nuclear explosive to permanently irradiate the mine itself, but I cannot imagine that the ores being extracted from the ground are worth the effort necessary to extract them now. Especially as we also stole every piece of earth-moving equipment on the planet, going so far as to include the asphalt-laying machines used to resurface roads.
Duke Avelina will no doubt find our contribution to the success of her colony awe-inspiring, and it is my hope that the new world can in turn become some manner of laboratory for development, with an Aquitaine-inspired legal system, under Imperial authority, with the vast bulk of the population an even mix of first generation immigrants from Buran and semi-retired or freed Imperial service members looking to claim their retirement patronage on a new planet.
But getting back to Vo’s own version of Project Mischief. With the help of Victoria Ames, he crafted (or perhaps she crafted with his authority would be a better way to state it) an advertising campaign to induce many of the female inhabitants of Barnaul to join the newly-liberated miners/prisoners and leave Buran space forever. (At least we hope the secrecy around the colony can be maintained indefinitely, and that Moirrey’s mission reaches a level of success that it no longer becomes necessary in time.)
Duke Avelina’s colony will, long before you or Lady Casey can say or do anything about it, have a new base population of over eleven thousand inhabitants. Again, most of the men are Imperial, with a leavening of other places, such as NovLao, while the women are almost all Buran. I expect that it will grow into something approximating the Republic rather than the Empire, given the nature of such strong women and the influence they will no doubt wield going forward.
The 189th will be making this planet their forward strike base as well, allowing them to rapidly assault interesting, nearby targets without the need to return to Osynth B’Udan regularly to reorganize. Messages have already been delivered to Em, ere now, informing him of such and requiring that new logistics trains be established.
Any of those might tip the balance, regardless of Moirrey’s mission, but I am about to embark on something even more grand. Vo accuses me (with some merit) of attempting to one-up his amazing achievements. Phil Kosnett does the same, although I would be hard-pressed to top the adventures of CS-405 while on detached duty.
We are headed to Mansi as I write this. Kosnett liberated a prison world there, bringing home one thousand, six hundred and fourteen men, including three admirals and one hundred twenty-nine captains. While there are roughly eight thousand more men that have been laid to rest in the soil, we are not retrieving their remains at this time.
No, instead I have chosen to rescue their warships.
Kosnett was able to identify a number of captured vessels, up to heavy cruisers, parked in orbits of Mansi and disabled. We do not know how many might be flyable in their current condition, but I have sent for RAN Bulldog, the infamous Junkyard Chihuahua, to join us in the field, and more than three thousand Imperial sailors rescued at Barnaul have asked to accompany us on one last mission before they retire from the colors.
I have not mentioned my disquiet to anyone. Even Marcelle seems to acknowledge that I am just stressed from the need to hit Buran hard and often right now, so that the beast is distracted at the critical moment, whose success or failure we might not know for months.
I will not call them premonitions of my own death, as that ascribes to them far more weight than they deserve. I will say simply that I might be finally afraid of death herself. That I might have found something other than war that is important enough for me to consider not serving the rest of my life in uniform.
That coming home to your arms is the thought that drives me forward, rather than that long-burning-need to be the absolute best at my chosen vocation of violence.
I am afraid that I will turn into Emmerich at that point where he was coasting on his legend, rather than extending it. He and I have spoken many times about the shock he had, when he realized that I was indeed better than he had ever been, and far better than he had let himself settle for.
I am not ready to settle, but I look forward to the possibility of coming home for good. Of meeting you at the graving dock and being able to kiss you and let your arms encircle me and just hold me.
Losing Warlock nearly undid me. You have held me through nightmares, where I relived that moment, as well as the many ways I might lose myself or you. For years, the vicious specter of Kali-ma herself drove me. Took me to dizzying heights undreamt of even in my wildest, teenage fantasies. But she exacts a terrible price, and I fear having to pay it.
Buran will not go quietly. No gods ever do. They must be driven from the stage, and perhaps replaced by better pantheons, when the elder fails in their duty to the nation and the homestead.
And The Eldest has failed. I can see it in the faces of the women deciding to try their luck into the darkness, rather than the surety of Barnaul. Keller Marie Jessica strikes at will, and the beast seems paralyzed to stop her.
&
nbsp; But I dare not attempt Samara. Nor Ninagirsu. And even Severnaya Zemlya will finally have the forces necessary to prevent a third attack succeeding, unless I brought forth all of Imperial Grand Fleet and tossed them into the mix.
But, at the same time, I do not need to. Buran’s spies know of 2218 Svati Prime. Or Thuringwell. Trusski. Even of First St. Legier, when the Empire’s worst enemy rallied the very fleet pledged to defeat her.
But that legend is a sword, as well as a shield. It cut deep at Stanovoy. At Yenisei. Even at pitiful Barnaul.
And shortly at Mansi, where I fervently pray that The Eldest has decided to cut his losses and abandon the place, rather than setting in place a full warfleet, as if guided to Armageddon by a Kali-ma intent on finishing the task begun at First Petron. I will have Denis Jež and Tom Provst. Iskra Vlahovic. Robbie and Alber’ and Kigali. New warriors like Phil Kosnett and Reif Kingston.
But I fear it will not be enough. That nothing will be enough, and that the incredible luck of Jessica Keller has finally worn itself down to a nub.
I go to sleep tonight wishing I had your arms around me and your warmth to steal.
* * *
My heart and soul to you,
Jess.”
* * *
She sealed up the letter and considered putting it into her file, but something like that required more significance. Instead, she rose from behind her desk and keyed open the safe in the side wall, where orders and mission documents were kept. Where Denis or Tom would come if something happened to her and one of them acceded to the command of the remains of First Expeditionary Fleet.
She could trust them to see that the letter was delivered to Torsten, if necessity demanded. Tonight, she had to close her eyes and dance with Kali-ma one last time.
Chapter LXXV
Imperial Founding: 181/07/03. IFV Butterfly, Winterhome
Looking around the bridge, he couldn’t remember the name of the man who had said it, but Gunter had the phrase stuck in his head. Someone Lady Moirrey had mentioned, obviously. All the weird bits of scientific or cultural trivia came from that bottomless mind.
Standing on the shoulders of giants, or some such. Looking around the bridge of the vessel, he had to agree with the sentiment.
Gunter had never served under a woman commander, Jessica Keller notwithstanding. Hadn’t ever really believed that most women were capable of commanding. Not in the way that mattered. Sure, they were smart. And could exceed most men when it came to ruthlessness. He had spoken with Her Majesty on several occasions. Tough as nails.
But Ainsley Barret had turned his head completely around. She had been a fighter pilot for most of her career. And not just the crazy ones who rushed into combat, but a scout pilot flying a vessel functionally unarmed, while surrounded by people with guns.
At Thuringwell, and he had confirmed the story from both records and interviewing several participants, she had taken on an entire battle squadron by herself, tuning her tiny ship’s systems to mimic a heavy missile cruiser somehow unmasking itself in the middle of the Aquitaine force. Every Imperial vessel that could had launched down on her little ship.
The woman was utterly nuts.
Later, when necessary, she had taken command of Auberon’s Flight Wing and led them to First Trusski, as they called it. One full squadron of fighters taking on four Makos.
And surviving.
He had expected her to be competent, if zu Wachturm was going to have her serve the Imperial Navy as a Captain. The first woman to ever do so, just like Keller was the first woman to ever fly her own flag.
Ainsley had gone so far beyond his expectations that he still had to remember to not be in awe of her, sitting in the other command chair as they check-listed this final mission.
Over one shoulder, the usual gender breakdown in the other stations. Pops and Bedrov had turned their seats into a full engineering suite on all the power systems, so it just made sense to sit together where they could talk quickly and quietly.
Yan Bedrov, ex-pirate, had designed Keller’s warfleet, with a little help from old designs attributed to Pops Nakamura. He had designed the Butterfly, once Lady Moirrey handed him the specs for St. George’s Lance on the spine.
There were no naval architects in Fribourg on this man’s level, for skill and beauty. For efficiency or savagery. None. Gunter had been assigned by Hendrik at one point to locate men that might fit that bill, and found none. Two young apprentices had been the closest he had been able to find, and both had died at Werder.
So Gunter could say without hesitation that Yan Bedrov was the best designer in the Empire. It was a galling admission, but it also spoke to something he had heard from Lady Moirrey. Fribourg and Aquitaine never had to worry all that much about construction budgets, with the scale of money they had available.
Only in Corynthe was money so tight that you were not allowed a wasted cubic centimeter of volume. They never had enough funds, so their ships were impressive but not galaxy-class. That is, until Yan Bedrov designs were constructed by Aquitaine and later Fribourg.
And worse, after spending so much time around them, Gunter knew the truth that most folks dared not mention out loud. Pops Nakamura was a better designer than Bedrov.
That was perhaps the most frightening aspect of the entire affair: what Pops could have done, with that level of budgetary power behind him.
Gunter had seen some of his designs. Not just the mundane stuff, like a new Fast Strike Destroyer, or the mythical Wasp variant of the corvettes that put a slow-firing Type-4 beam on the bow. Gunter could only imagine what a phalanx of such craft would do to most battle fleets, to say nothing of hunting down Buran’s navy later.
No, Pops had decided to show off one night, goaded by Summer and Lady Moirrey, and even Bedrov, the entire group lubricated by beer and wine.
There was the long-range Exploration Mothership, a six-ring beast where civilian folks could dock a personal yacht and fly in utter comfort, coming down to the main hull for events and parties, and then dropping off when the ship flew through an interesting system, to be picked up on the next loop, or by the next ship.
Gunter had eventually remembered to pick up his jaw when Pops displayed his idea of what should replace the old Star Controller design from Aquitaine. No language contained the superlatives, once Pops brought up a heavy dreadnaught and laid the image alongside for scale comparison. The Sky Goddess design was as wide as the heavy dreadnaught was long, and still looked sleek and elegant for all the beam emplacements and exotic weapon arrays. Twelve GunShips. Eighty-one star fighters. Eight couriers and shuttles. Two full DropShips.
The vessel, fully crewed and properly trained, could take on First Expeditionary Fleet by itself, even without the mass of escorts Pops and Bedrov had designed to travel with it.
In a way, Gunter was sad that most of those ships would never be built if they were successful here. The big war might actually end and Fribourg wouldn’t need to push back so hard on their borders. Without their god, what would happen to the fleet of Sentient children, to say nothing of the culture that venerated an immortal being?
Gunter turned to look over his other shoulder at the two women on the opposite sides, holding hands and giggling quietly at some joke.
Summer Ulfsson liked to present herself as beautiful eye-candy. And she was. But she had also occasionally shown the incisive intellect hidden underneath that shell. The ability to follow some of the conversations and details where Gunter got lost. The near perfect recall of details. He assumed an eidetic memory, which would help, especially with nerds and scientists such as this group.
Lady Moirrey was the special case. He had been read in to the contents of Project Mischief, including the bits she considered too silly or too technologically advanced to actually build right now.
But then, Pops’s Sky Goddess used a Type-6 beam as a forward weapons emplacement, like the heavy dreadnaught used the Type-4.
It was probably just a matter of time before some
of Lady Moirrey’s toys were built and used. His personal favorite was a shield generator that created a huge bubble around the ship, designed to literally ram an enemy warship or fighter that had gotten too close. Missiles with small JumpDrives, where they could blink out of space and then reappear at a set of coordinates, hopefully overwhelming a surprised defender.
And Lady Moirrey would go on to design other things, of that he had no doubts. Assuming they lived long enough. And got home.
“You okay?” Ainsley’s voice intruded on Gunter’s thoughts.
He turned to find her staring at him from her chair. How lost had he been?
“Fixing it in my mind,” he finally said, finding the words to describe his feelings.
“Understood,” she agreed. “This day probably rates its own chapter when someone writes everything up. You’ll never have to buy another drink, any bar you walk into.”
He shrugged, almost defensively. Standing on the shoulders of giants. Four of them just in this room. Maybe five, if Summer was as dangerous, as capable as he suspected she preferred to hide. Yet she just sat there and watched with ancient eyes.
Ainsley had picked him out specifically to handle this mission. He knew that. The circle of insiders who knew about the Butterfly and the Bartender limited who could be involved without additional risk. And, as the others had understood, the bulk of the crew needed to be Imperial, especially the man who would actually push the button when that critical instant arrived.
“Checklist is done, Commander,” Ainsley said, rather formally.
“Confirmed, Captain,” he replied. “Standing by.”
She smiled at him. Somehow the smile conveyed both warmth and menace in equal tones, in a way he really couldn’t put his finger on.
“Oh, no, Gunter,” she cooed, cocking her head slightly and staring at him. “I’m done. My job was to deliver this vessel and its crew to this location. Same with Moirrey, Summer, Yan, and Pops. This is now your mission. You will take command.”