by Eric Thomson
Brakal thought about it, then made a gesture of refusal.
“This is a delicate time. Best if we let Surgh carry out his duties so that events unfold as planned.”
Though the Chief Imperial Negotiator was a career bureaucrat, he did not carry the stench of the former council’s misrule. On the contrary. Most in the Forbidden Quarter and beyond respected his wisdom, even temperament, and talent at ending the most bitter of disputes. And he spoke the humans’ barbaric language thanks to time spent in their Commonwealth on trade missions long before the war.
“As you command.”
Brakal wished Regar was with him. Peacefully sharing an orbit with a human strike group was strange and left him uneasy. The spy’s cynical view of the universe would have provided a certain measure of relief. But as promised, Brakal gave Regar his reward and left him on Shrehari Prime to form the empire’s outward-facing intelligence service, the Tai Zohl, with the help of the new Tai Kan director, Kroesh.
Instead, he settled into his throne-like chair and studied the human warships with keen interest. One of the Tai Zohl’s first assignments would be uncovering the secrets of human naval architecture. The empire’s had stagnated for so long, its designers and engineers barely remembered the meaning of the word innovation.
That one they called a frigate, for example. A class of ship which would have eventually eroded the Deep Space Fleet’s ability to keep human raiders at bay once sufficient numbers roamed the disputed frontier. And praise the gods they only ever encountered one vessel such as that battleship which could vanish and reappear at will.
“Who commands you?” He murmured, remembering his defeat, many turns ago, at the hands of the flame-haired she-wolf close to where his flagship now orbited. Would it not be poetic if...?
“The first human ships are entering orbit, Lord. Those they classify as seekers.”
Brakal marveled again at the hairless apes fielding so many designs instead of concentrating on a few models that could be modified and adapted to any mission. Perhaps part of their success in improving ships so quickly stemmed from this propensity. That strike group included no more than two ships of the same configuration among the eleven now on final approach. Three pairs. The other five were as different from each other and the matched pairs as demons and gods. Especially the one with unusual markings which was surely no warship.
“What is that?” He indicated the space liner.
“A civilian luxury transport used by wealthy and powerful humans to travel among the stars,” Tol Radaq’s gun master said after consulting his ship identification database. Taking his cue from Admiral Kaalak, he decided it would be best to avoid speaking a human name which would only come out of his Shrehari throat like the grunts of a choking kroorath.
“Is the human supreme leader traveling in that instead of the flagship?” Brakal sounded incredulous.
“Perhaps it carries entertainers for the delegation and its escort. We know so little about their customs beyond those purely related to war.”
“Strange.”
— Forty-Four —
Iolanthe’s pinnace, bearing a commodore’s single star on a blue rectangle, entered one of Aquilonia’s large cargo hangars five days later. It carried Siobhan Dunmoore, accompanied by Lieutenant Commander Thorin Sirico, Major Tatiana Salminen, Chief Petty Officer Guthren, and Sergeant Major Talo Haataja. Shuttles from the rest of Task Force Luckner’s ships, except for the scouts and the transport, already sat in a neat row to one side, waiting for her arrival.
The pinnace’s pilot, Petty Officer Knowles, gently parked her craft on the spot closest to the inner airlock, deliberately left for Dunmoore’s craft. When the space doors closed, the smaller of the two internal airlocks opened, and a tall, muscular man in Marine Corps battledress stepped through. He wore a major’s four-pointed star and oak leaf wreath at the collar, and the 1st Special Forces Regiment’s winged dagger on his sky blue beret.
All six shuttles dropped their aft ramps and disgorged Task Force Luckner’s reconnaissance team come to scout out the facilities ahead of tomorrow’s formal meeting between Secretary-General Lauzier and Kho’sahra Brakal. Grand Admiral Shkadov wanted a display of military perfection from the SecGen’s ceremonial escort headed by Commodore Dunmoore.
She had, therefore, ordered the officers who would command the various ships’ guards and their chief petty officers to join her in walking Aquilonia’s corridors to the former warehouse which was even now being furnished with a table, chairs, flagpoles, banners and more.
When he saw her, the Special Forces major snapped to attention and saluted.
“I’m Alois Tucker, sir. Welcome to the hind end of the galaxy.”
“That bad?”
“The place is a former mining colony which has seen little love in the last ten years, not the Palace of the Stars. But I suppose it’s the closest thing to neutral ground we can find. Secure neutral ground. The Shrehari didn’t leave any nasties behind.”
“The contrary would have surprised me. Once a Shrehari of the Warrior Caste gives his word, it is inviolable.”
“True.”
Dunmoore indicated the officers behind her.
“Each of my six major warships is forming a seventy-five strong guard under a lieutenant commander and a chief petty officer. The SecGen’s ceremonial bodyguard will be provided by E Company, 3rd Battalion, Scandia Regiment under the command of Major Tatiana Salminen. Chief Petty Officer Guthren, my flagship’s coxswain will play battalion chief.”
After Tucker shook hands with each as they introduced themselves, he gestured toward the large inner airlock which was slowly sliding open.
“One of the advantages here is the size. Everything is huge. Your entire battalion will be able to march comfortably from this hangar through the corridor to the central warehouse which will serve as meeting space, then take up a normal parade formation when they arrive. There’s only one hitch. I wouldn’t bring Terra’s band with you. The acoustics are abominable.”
“I was planning on a silent evolution, Major. Since the Shrehari wouldn’t understand human music, let alone the sentiments it’s supposed to evoke, the effect will be better with just verbal orders and clicking heels. We’ll keep time via ear bugs.”
“And I understand Terra’s Marine contingent won’t be joining you.”
She shook her head.
“No. Admiral Shkadov decided he wanted only tunics with the Task Force Luckner crest and the Commonwealth Unit Citation on parade.”
“That simplifies things, sir.”
“Why?” Dunmoore gave him a curious look.
“Terra’s embarked contingent is from the 1st Marine Regiment. They’re rather peculiar about their ceremonial protocols. Especially if they’re parading with an Army unit.”
“Understood.”
The 1st Marines, stationed on Earth, were known as the Palace Guard because of their duties in the Commonwealth capital, Geneva. The nickname, when used by someone from a front line regiment such as the Special Forces, was undeniably pejorative.
They spent an hour pacing back and forth between the hangar and the cavernous space which once held stacked containers of refined metals ready for shipping while going through the plan for tomorrow’s performance. When Dunmoore declared herself satisfied, Tucker showed them the cargo hangar which would be used by the Shrehari contingent, and their path to the place where history would be made. The visit ended in the passenger shuttle hangars next to their larger cargo siblings.
“Still hard to believe we’ll be in full dress uniforms and facing a battalion of Shrehari in less than twenty-four hours, isn’t it?” Dunmoore remarked as they returned to their shuttles.
“No kidding, sir,” Tucker replied. “I’ll need to watch my itchy trigger finger. Unlike your guard, my folks will carry live ammo. Not that I expect any problems, but when you’re working close protection on the Commonwealth’s head of state, it’s lock and load all the time. Good thing we’re only do
ing it for this mission. I’d probably catch a bad case of cafard if I were babysitting him full time on Earth.”
Tucker’s use of the Marine Corps slang for depression momentarily caught her out, but she quickly remembered what it meant. And where it came from.
“I wouldn’t blame you, Major.” When they reach the line of shuttles, she stuck out her hand. “Thanks for playing tour guide. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
After shaking hands, Tucker came to attention and saluted.
“Until tomorrow.”
**
Dunmoore felt unaccustomed nervousness as she buckled on her sword belt and stepped off the pinnace with Chief Petty Officer First Class Guthren. He also wore a sword belt but carried a silver-tipped black rosewood cane, a coxswain’s symbol of authority, tucked under his left arm.
Contrary to the previous day, her pinnace had landed in the smaller personnel hangar next to the cargo hangar where her people were forming up by guard, ready to receive the Secretary-General and his retinue whose shuttle would also use the personnel hangar.
Though the navy blue tunic with a commodore’s broad gold stripe topped by an executive curl on the cuffs fit as if tailor-made, she nonetheless felt as if she was wearing someone else’s uniform. Even the white crest with the black eagle on her upper left sleeve seemed strange. But strangest of all was carrying a ceremonial sword on an airless moon which had been, until a few weeks earlier, occupied by the same enemy she was about to face as head of an honor guard rather than fight them from her flagship’s CIC.
As she came through the airlock connecting both hangars, Dunmoore heard Major Salminen call Task Force Luckner to attention. She found them arrayed in facing ranks, three ship’s guards to a side, with E Company between them, ready for the SecGen.
“Task Force Luckner, to your flag officer commanding, present ARMS.”
Weapons came up, swords swept down, heels stomped, and Dunmoore raised her hand to her brow in salute.
After a suitable interval, “Task Force Luckner, shoulder ARMS.”
Standing behind Dunmoore, Chief Guthren ran a critical eye over the makeshift battalion, then let out a satisfied grunt.
“Not bad,” he muttered in a voice pitched only for Dunmoore’s ears.
Once Salminen put the troops at ease, she asked, “Is everything ready, Major?”
“Yes, sir. We made one practice run from here to the meeting room. We might be a bit rough changing from column to line, but the Shrehari won’t notice. Nor will the VIPs since my troops will surround them.”
Dunmoore let her eyes roam over the assembled spacers and soldiers and was struck by the pride in their bearing, the neatness of their uniforms and the determined look in their eyes as they met her gaze without embarrassment. If the other ships had selected their guards in the same manner as Iolanthe, these would be the best of the best, those deserving the honor of witnessing history.
Not far from where she stood, in another hangar, a Shrehari admiral was probably doing the same — making sure his guard didn’t dishonor the empire by appearing sloppy in front of the damned hairless apes from Earth.
Major Tucker’s voice in her ear bug gave Dunmoore a start.
“Commodore, the VIP shuttle is entering the main personnel hangar. Kho’sahra Brakal’s shuttle is on final approach to the secondary personnel hangar.”
Dunmoore glanced at Guthren and nodded to say, we’re on.
“Task Force Luckner.” Her voice echoed across the hangar, making everyone stiffen for the order to come to attention. “The VIP shuttle is landing. In a few minutes, we will escort our Secretary-General to meet the Shrehari supreme leader and formalize the armistice between the Commonwealth and the Empire. I know you will do our task force, our fleet, and our species honor.”
She paused.
“Task Force Luckner, atten-SHUN.” She turned to face the airlock and drew her sword while Guthren took position behind her and to her right.
When Lauzier, trailed by Grand Admiral Shkadov, Ambassador Januzaj, and the deputy service chiefs appeared, she called out, “Task Force Luckner, to your Secretary-General, present ARMS.”
Her sword came up until the crossbar above the hilt was level with her lips, then swept down and to the right until its tip was mere centimeters above the hangar deck’s scarred floor. Hands slapped weapons, feet stomped in unison, and Guthren raised his hand in salute.
Lauzier, a lean, sixty-something with wavy black hair and deep-set eyes on either side of a patrician nose, placed his hand above his heart in a solemn gesture and inclined his head. He wore a dark gray suit with a high-collared tunic made from a material which shimmered like real silk under the hangar’s harsh lighting.
“Task Force Luckner, shoulder ARMS.” She raised her sword and took a step forward. “Sir, we are ready to escort you and the delegation.”
“Please proceed, Commodore.”
Dunmoore and Guthren spun on their heels in a perfect parade ground maneuver. “Task Force Luckner will form in column of route. To the left and right, in column of route TURN.”
She and her coxswain marched through the ranks of E Company followed by Lauzier and the VIPs. When the latter were engulfed by Salminen’s soldiers, Dunmoore called out, “Task Force Luckner, by the center, quick MARCH.”
The entire battalion stepped off on the left foot, six hundred heels coming down at once, but eerily without a drum to set the pace.
Dunmoore led the formation through the cargo airlock and into the large corridor, Guthren keeping everyone in step by softly calling cadence via a quasi-invisible throat mic which fed six hundred ear bugs. Any onlooker would think the formation marched in dignified and menacing silence, arms swinging. Her ears eventually caught the faint sounds of alien voices far ahead shouting commands in a guttural tongue, though she could not, at this distance, make out the words.
When she entered the warehouse, the naval guards on either side wheeled to the left and right forming ranks facing the far wall, while E Company coalesced into a square protecting the human VIPs.
“Task Force Luckner, HALT.”
Six hundred feet stamped with a loud thud which echoed off the walls.
After briefly studying the table, chairs, and banners set up halfway between the two cargo doors, Dunmoore took several steps forward until she stood alone in front of her troops. As prearranged, Secretary-General Lauzier, Grand Admiral Shkadov, Ambassador Januzaj, and the deputy service chiefs left the soldiers’ protective cocoon and took position on either side of her to wait for the Shrehari. Around them, hidden but active video cameras were recording every moment of the ceremony and had been since the moment Lauzier entered the main cargo hangar to receive Dunmoore’s salute.
The first bare-headed Shrehari assault troops wearing black armor emerged from the corridor leading to the other cargo hangar, marching with the same silent precision as Task Force Luckner. Dunmoore knew Shrehari were generally larger than humans, but she was surprised at how imposing they appeared, even across a broad expanse of polished stone.
They too formed ranks facing their erstwhile foes, but instead of carrying power weapons, each wore a long, sheathed knife at the waist. The blades and the strips of fur on their skulls meant they were Warrior Caste, every single one of them, the elite of their military forces.
The Shrehari silently stared at their human counterparts through expressionless black within black eyes and Dunmoore couldn’t help but feel a shiver run up her spine at the sight. That such an enemy ended a war they started was a good sign the navy was hurting them. Badly.
Then, a familiar Shrehari emerged from the corridor, trailed by a wizened civilian she knew to be Negotiator Surgh and an officer wearing the uniform of an admiral of the third rank who could only be Kaalak. Brakal, in formal court robes with what Dunmoore assumed was a kho’sahra’s badge of office on his right breast seemed older than when she last saw him above Miranda, but he exuded the same powerful aura as his troops. He stopped and stared at
the human VIP party around Dunmoore. When their eyes met, she knew he recognized her as clearly as she recognized him.
— Forty-Five —
Without a word, Brakal, the one Dunmoore believed to be Kaalak, and Surgh resumed walking toward the center of the space, stopping near the negotiation table to wait.
Lauzier glanced at her.
“Commodore, the officer with Brakal, is it their grand admiral or whatever they call him?”
“No, sir. He’s what we would call an admiral of the third rank in Anglic, roughly equivalent to our vice admiral. He’s probably the commander of his escort battle group, a Shrehari by the name Kaalak.”
“In that case, you’re with Ambassador Januzaj and me,” SecGen Lauzier said before stepping off to meet his Shrehari counterpart.
Dunmoore sheathed her sword and marched in step behind Lauzier and the ambassador, halting when they did.
The three Shrehari raised clenched right fists to their chests in what Dunmoore recognized as their formal greeting. Lauzier and Januzaj replied by inclining their heads in a courtly gesture. After a moment of hesitation, Dunmoore raised her hand to her brow in a proper parade ground salute. It made the moment seem more fantastic than ever. But she knew paying a former enemy the appropriate military compliments due to someone of his rank was well within protocol.
“I am pleased we finally meet, Kho’sahra Brakal,” Lauzier said. “Our respective ambassadors have done good work over the last five days.”
He paused while Surgh translated for Brakal and Kaalak’s benefit. When Surgh fell silent, Brakal made a gesture of assent and spoke in his language, though he articulated each word with care so that Dunmoore could understand.
“They did so indeed, Leader of the Humans Lauzier.” The SecGen’s name came out as a mangled jumble. “I hope you are as satisfied as I am, so we may conclude the armistice and live side by side in peace from now until the end of time.”
Surgh translated in his halting Anglic, making Dunmoore happy her own version of Brakal’s statement mostly matched it.