"So what did you mean?" he said, not willing to let matters lie.
"Let's just say that there is a deep connection between your lineage and mine." Whelan worked the buttons with quick, deft movements. "Have you ever pondered the etymology of your name? Raen'dalle? It translates literally from the old tongue of the Belnige Empire to mean 'Born of Raen.'"
"The Tor'val?" Robert said with a frown. "The holy warrior who fought with the Lethen'al to defeat Tarek on the fields of Devenshire?"
"The same. Raen was the first-born son of the Great King, Therebus De'veldrin. Therebus' youngest son, Rhom, became the vessel for the Demon King Tarek. Raen aided the Lethen'al in their battle against Tarek and his hordes of monsters from the Sur."
"And Raen's son, Melen, became the first king of Patheran," Robert said. "Our current King, Daen, is his direct descendant."
"So it is said."
"Are you suggesting that my family is also descended from Raen?" Robert said when Whelan moved behind him to wipe his shoulders.
"Such a thing would be treason, Sir." Whelan smirked. "It would put your own lineage on par with the King's, and suggest your House possesses a claim on the throne."
"Exactly," Robert said. "I would appreciate it if you never mentioned such an assumption again."
"I'm only making conversation, Sir," Whelan said. "You could say I'm a student of history. My family is consumed by it."
"So how does this relate to your duty towards my family?"
"Call me a protector, Sir," Whelan said. He stepped back so Robert could assess his image in the framed looking glass. "And I have seen a true noble spirit within you. I would like to ensure you survive the days to come."
"I'd be a fool if I did not say I was honored by the sentiment, Boatswain," Robert said after a cursory glance. "And you do exquisite work. I've never seen such a luster on these leathers."
"The officers are waiting for us, Sir," Whelan said, and waved toward the door.
"Heavens blessings!" Lyle said when Robert reemerged. "You look like you stepped off the parade field, not a combat zone."
Robert shrugged, uncomfortable with the flattery.
"Wonders are possible at the hands of a true master," Robert said with a wave toward Whelan.
"Well, if you ever grow tired in his employ," Lyle said to Whelan, "you'd be more than welcome in mine."
"Thank you, Sir,' Whelan said, "but I'm perfectly happy where I am."
"How do things stand?" Robert said when he reached the tabletop terrain.
"Their vanguard pulled back to the other side of Caliban's Crossing," Lyle said. "They're waiting for the rest of their force and licking their wounds. Oddly enough, they seem reluctant to reenter the tunnel."
"We left some reminders of the Fae when we passed through," Robert said. "We hoped it would serve as deterrent."
"Well, whatever you did, it worked." Lyle rubbed his eyes. "It's given us time to reinforce the forward lines and evacuate the wounded. Your crew were a godsend down there. Thank you for the assistance."
"No thanks necessary," Robert said. "We're all on the same side, here."
"Your Captain dropped a transmission canister during the engagement, wondering where you were." Lyle held up the slip of parchment, with Stockbridge's tight scrawl covering it. "We signaled that you were otherwise engaged. She wants you to make contact as soon as you're able. The Dreadnaught secured a graph wire to the dock. I don't think she's keen on us co-opting your services."
"I'll report in, and let you know what she says."
"Get to it," Lyle said. "From what I hear, she's not one to be kept waiting."
A small chamber down the hall from the command center housed the communications room. Vials of glowing tubes lined the walls, and each crackled with differing levels of intensity according to the amount of electricity that coursed along it. Robert did not fully comprehend the sealed glass constructs - vacuum tubes, he'd heard them called - but understood their importance to the transmission process. A small cycling chamber rested in the nest of clockwork gears, springs and pistons beneath each vial to power its motion. Conical receivers and mouthpieces sat ready beside each set, and manned by a uniformed soldier.
The officer on duty stood at attention when Robert entered.
"Do we have comms to the Dreadnaut?" Robert said.
"Aye, Sir." The duty officer grabbed the receiver from its cradle and held it out.
Robert took the cone, and moved close to the mouthpiece.
"This is Second Lieutenant, Raen'dalle," he said, enunciating each word. "Patch me to the bridge."
"Authenticate," the distant voice replied.
"A good cannon is worth twelve nobles," Robert said. He hated the code Stockbridge assigned him, but refused to admit it, especially in the Captain's presence. He cast a scowl at the duty officer when the phrase elicited a snicker.
"One moment, sir," the voice said.
A hiss of static sounded, followed by a series of clicks, and then Stockbridge's voice came through.
"Enjoying the shore leave?" The gear muffled her voice, and he knew she held the equipment at a comfortable distance from her mouth.
"Hardly, Ma'am," Robert said. He made sure she understood his response.
"Where's my cutter?"
"Lost, Ma'am," Robert said. "Chief Winslow with it. The crew survived, for the most part. We were forced to aid in the defense of the citadel. Four more died in the assault. Seven of the crew lost in total, Ma'am."
"Who forced you to give assistance?"
"I did, Ma'am." Robert said. "Their forces would have been overrun without our aid."
"So I'm down six aeronauts, my best helmsman, and my fastest cutter."
"That sums it up, Ma'am," Robert said.
"I expect a full report when you're back on deck," she said. "And we'll discuss what I think of your actions then. Until such a time, you are to remain at the citadel and continue to render whatever aid you can. The isolator is still causing problems, and we're dead in the air. We've been getting pelted by fliers, so we have no way to extract your crew. Keep them safe, Raen'dalle, and keep your pants on."
"Understood, Ma'am," Robert said, but the click in his ear told him she already signed off.
The Butcher of Brae Head
Captain Solara Stockbridge hung up the receiver before Raen'dalle responded. For such a promising young officer, he had a penchant for getting into trouble, both aboard ship and off. She did not need him getting blown to pieces in some private quest for glory. Just like a pumped up noble, she thought. Always seeking the recognition he believed to be his birthright. Some days, she did not understand why she kept him aboard.
The sun set an hour ago, and a comfortable darkness engulfed the bridge. The green and yellow glow from the dials and gauges bathed the command post with enough light to see, augmented by the red guide lights spread strategically throughout the space.
He did forge an excellent rapport with the crew, she mused. Perhaps a little too familiar with certain members, but what noble did not chase skirts? Her eyes drifted to ensign Hajeck who manned the navigational instruments for this shift. She wore a regulation uniform, and not a skirt, but the concept still held. Stockbridge failed to understand the young woman's appeal, though. True, she wore the uniform well, but her eyes sat too far apart in her face, and she laughed like a braying horse.
Stockbridge gritted her teeth and sought to calm herself. What did it matter to her who the crew members sought to saddle themselves with? The liaison did not appear to affect the performance of either of them. If anything, Hajeck's held a more relaxed and focused posture than before.
"Dreams of a better life end in tragedy," Stockbridge muttered to herself, in an attempt to put the matter from her mind. Let the fool girl fantasize about becoming a countess one day. So long as she did her job, she could chase whatever spoils she could attain.
The distant drilling of machine gun fire sounded through the hull, and she glanced at the command con
sole. A model of the Dreadnaut hung suspended in a repulsion field in the center of the display, and transparent red dots circled about it. The model floated lower than it should, and she adjusted a dial on the console. It corrected itself, but not by much. She spared a glance at the clockwork mechanism that powered the field, and crouched down to examine the cycling chamber that powered it. Although a tradition held that a Captain knew every inch of their ship, very few of them understood the details of how they worked. Most ignored how the pistons and gears moved, and focused instead on what they accomplished. Not for Stockbridge. She designed this system, and several others onboard herself. From a pocket on her sleeve, she drew a thin screwdriver and tightened a screw in the middle of the smaller gear. It started to slip, missed every fourth stroke, and did not mesh correctly. Three turns of the tool, the tangency between the gears increased, and the timing improved. She might need to replace the spiral spring before too long, but that had to wait until she had the time to pull the entire unit apart.
Stockbridge stood and examined the replica. More blips crowded around it, and darted about. Each red dot represented an Aeresian flier currently engaged in harassing the battlecruiser.
She classified the squat, single manned flying machines more as a nuisance than a threat. Limited to small arms, they caused negligible damage to the wings, rigging, and the crew. The malfunctioning isolator rendered the cloaking apparatus inoperable, however. In essence, they created a tempting target floating in plain sight. So long as the enemy threw their disposable fliers at them, they could sustain the situation. Those tiny musket balls could not possibly pierce the Dreadnaught's hull.
Should a capital ship come at them, the calculus would change.
Devoid of propulsion, the Dreadnaught would be forced to stand and fight. If need be, the weaponry they carried could carry the day, but without the ability to maneuver, they would sustain heavy damage. Stockbridge did not relish the thought of her ship being pummeled by the enemy.
Out of all the things she loved in this life, the Dreadnaut alone remained.
"Why the Dreadnaut?" Lyle said. They took their meal in his private dining hall, far from the eager ears of the soldiers. "That woman is a monster. Surely you could have your choice of assignments. Why the war criminal?"
Robert shrugged and took a sip of his wine.
"Stockbridge isn't so bad," Robert said, "once you get to know her. She really is an excellent officer, and her crew is loyal to a fault. Guess I was curious how a supposed war criminal generated such devotion."
"There's nothing 'supposed' about it," Lyle said, with more passion than the occasion warranted. "She's the bloody Butcher of Brae Head. She ordered the slaughter of the city's entire population. That's twenty thousand people. It's said she murdered the governor's family herself. How is that in any way excusable?"
Robert shrugged to show his inability to provide a moral excuse for his Captain's actions. "She was demoted. She was an admiral then. Now she's just a captain."
"She started the war," Lyle said. "That butchery of hers united the Aeresian people and pushed them to open conflict."
"War was coming anyway," Robert countered with an upraised finger. "We both know it. The riot that killed the Duke of First Haven? That was staged. They were looking for a reason to start hostilities."
"But Stockbridge gave it to them."
"Through great personal loss of her own," Robert said. "She's suffered enough. I think she still does."
"She should be in prison." Lyle speared a potato and gestured with it. "And you know it. How she ever got away with such a light sentence is beyond me."
Robert placed his cutlery on the edge of his plate and folded his hands in front of him.
"Remember Titus," he said.
"From Covenshire?" Lyle sat back with his wine. "Sure. The kitchen hulk. Dim fellow. What about him?"
"Remember how he slaughtered the entire hog herd?" Robert said.
Lyle nodded. "He used a blacksmith's hammer, didn't he?"
"That he did. Cost the Temple thousands to replace them. Do you remember what happened to him?"
Lyle thought for a moment and shook his head.
"No," he said. "I guess he was banished."
"Not at all," Robert said. "He was promoted, and moved into the Red Hall as under concierge."
"What?" Lyle sputtered and sat forward. "He ruined an entire herd."
"They were sick," Robert said. "The meat was tainted. Two mages and a priest died as a result of eating them. One was Titus' uncle, Gal'Maldron. Titus took out his grief on the herd, without knowing why he did so. His actions, however, saved everyone else in the chapterhouse from a similar fate. For that he was rewarded."
"Some people have all the luck," Lyle said with a sigh. "Nice enough fellow, though. I'm glad it worked out for him."
"It did work out for him, but not because he got lucky," Robert said. "The mages decided the spirit of the divine worked through him. He acted on his grief, gave physical action to his emotions, and so followed the edict of Heaven. His emotion was pure, his actions were in line, and therefore it was the Divine Plan."
"Are you serious?" Lyle said. "How did he even know the terms of the Eightfold Path? He couldn't read."
"He didn't make the claim," Robert said. "The mages did. They saw the intersection of fate and circumstance in his actions, and were lenient. Besides, he went to temple every day. He knew the Eightfold Path by heart, and delighted reciting the radials with the mages and apprentices."
Lyle fell silent. He picked up a green bean and chewed it.
"Stockbridge used the same defense, didn't she?" he said at length.
Robert stifled a yawn and resumed his meal.
"Not exactly," he said. "The high command did. Warren Stockbridge, the Duke of First Haven, was her husband. Solara Stockbridge was Rear Admiral of the air fleet, and was on hand for the extraction attempt. She took her own flagship down to the embassy's courtyard. She watched her husband's race to the gangway, was there when his guards fell, and she saw the muskets rip him apart."
Lyle threw down his linen napkin.
"Oh, bloody hells," he said. "I thought she suffered from overinflated patriotism, or was psychotic. I didn't know about the personal connection. It still doesn't excuse what she did, though. Thousands died, at her command. She killed children, Robert."
"Actually," Robert said. "It started with an aerial bombardment, and then she landed companies of Zephyrs at the city entrances. Ten minutes in, one of the cannons punched through a secret munitions warehouse. The explosion took out half the city. Two more warehouses went up within minutes of the first.
"Afterward, one of the investigators on scene raised a question about the women and children. Apparently, they couldn't find any. Because there were none. Not one. All the bodies found were male, and none younger than fourteen.
"Apparently, Brae Head was evacuated, and the residents replaced with a division of Aeresian Legionnaires. The investigation that followed rooted out a dozen sympathizer nests in Ialkan'thor. The Aeresians were shipping soldiers and armaments across the channel for months. They planned to instigate a revolution in the capitol and seize control under the guise of extending aid."
Lyle sat back in his chair, his meal forgotten.
"I didn't know any of this," he said. "None of that was in the official reports or newspapers."
"I heard it from my father and brothers," Robert said, "after they heard who my commanding officer was. They wanted me to understand what I should expect."
Lyle raised his glass to the ceiling in a toast. "The Creator's blessing on her then. No one ever said the Eightfold path was easy."
"I don't think the Creator's done with her yet," Robert said.
The yawning groan of a muffled explosion pulled Stockbridge's attention from the inner workings of the coolant pump. The vibrations she felt through the metal hull told her the enemy no longer contented themselves with sending fliers their way.
"
Captain," the tactical officer called, and waited until Stockbridge scooted out from beneath the console.
"Report," she said, and stuck her wrench in the toolbelt cinching her waist. "What the bloody hells hit my ship?"
"Contacts heavenward, Ma'am," tactical said. "Three dropships descending fast. One just landed on deck."
Stockbridge consulted the tactical display. Fliers still swarmed the replica of the Dreadnaut, but three larger indicators approached from above. One rested on the forecastle deck. She removed her tool kit and grabbed her weapons belt slung across the top of the console. Twisting the communications dial, she grabbed the speaker cone.
"Zephyrs move on the forecastle. Toss that offal over the side," she ordered, and moved to the tactical station. "All hands to battle stations."
Aeronauts moved about the bridge with calm efficiency, though the tension thickened in the room.
"Bring the heavenward batteries online," Stockbridge said, "and tell them they have free reign. I want open skies above us, and I want them now. Nothing lands to my deck save pieces of those dropships."
The drumroll of machine gun fire drifted down from above decks, and the quieter pop of muskets responded. The roar of cannons and cycling guns joined the cacophony when the upper batteries opened fire on the enemy craft.
Outside the bridge's grand span of windows, flaming wreckage fell from the heavens, accompanied by the occasional body or limb. She pushed the image away, and returned her attention to the situation at hand.
Stockbridge glanced upward.
This isn't right, she thought. The rate of fire for the machine guns should not be so frequent. She glanced at the replica; large red dots signifying five more dropships appeared at the periphery of the device's range.
"All batteries weapons free," she ordered. "Navigation do we have lift?"
"Negative, Ma'am," came the response. "The isolator is still offline. The only helium we have is already in the ballonets."
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