St. Legier

by Blaze Ward

  “Danville, hold here,” he said, just loud enough for the other man to hear on the comm.

  The killer nodded and remained down, pistol sniffing ahead.

  Vo considered Thuringwell. Games in the brush with that rat bastard from Imperial Security. Before Moirrey got the guy. Vo didn’t figure he was walking into an ambush, but maybe, just maybe they had found someone’s bolthole, like that old mine had turned out to be.

  Shattered buildings in all directions from the shockwave of wind and heat that had penetrated the shields overhead. Trees old enough, mature enough, to have been scorched, but not much more. Yeah, this would be where he would want to dig in, on Day Two.

  He remembered a small creek on the far side of a rise, possibly fed by an artesian well. Pull supplies from root cellars and wine cellars and ruins. Danville had indicated a small person, so perhaps a teen or a young woman. A few tracks, but looking down, Vo would have missed whatever spoor Danville was on, so some level of field craft.

  I would want a little elevation, but not so much that I could be seen. Just enough to keep watch safely.

  “Danville, follow the terrain to your right about twenty degrees,” Vo said quietly. “Up and into that heavier brush on the second rise. Everyone else, safeties on for now.”

  Approach this like a scared deer rather than a trapped bear. For now. They could all unleash a fusillade in an eyeblink.

  Danville seemed to float across the snow like a wisp. Street shifted, but not as much, spreading himself out into an arc coming around the base of that heavy brush on the little hill. Gunderson and Burana shifted the other direction, opening the net wider on the assumption that their General could hold the space in the center. The five hole.

  High praise, from these men. Even if he did have a noisy Field Marshal tromping along close by.

  “That’s far enough,” a high voice called suddenly from the brush on the near part of the rise. “I have a weapon and I’ll shoot if you come any closer.”

  Bingo. Found them, whoever they were.

  Since there was no incoming fire, most of the men went to a knee, carbines and pistols up but not shooting, rather than flopping flat in the snow and raining down hell on someone.

  Vo joined them, signaling Rohm to do the same. Less threatening that way.

  Cutlass Ten itself wasn’t in direct sight, but all ten skiff commanders were listening in on the radio and would know what was happening. Plus he could always call in the entire 189th, if he felt the need.

  Hell might freeze over first, but he had options.

  “We’re the 189th Legion,” Vo called back, pitching his voice at the spot his mind had flagged as a good place for a slit trench hiding hole. “Rescuing survivors and getting them to evacuation centers.”

  Long pause. Thinking about it.

  “I don’t believe you,” she yelled.

  She. Not a teenage boy. The faintest possibility of being even younger, but there was too much poise in that voice for a twelve year old on their own for a month. Even among the militant aristocrats of Fribourg.

  Woman. No, girl. Sounded closer to sixteen. His two younger sisters, Zorana and Sonja, had both sounded like that, once upon a time a decade ago. Most likely alone. Probably scared, especially to encounter a bunch of armed men this deep in the Death Zone. Expecting the absolute worst, since the only law to be found around here were the men with him.

  Or guns.

  Vo stood up and holstered the revolver. He could always quick-draw in a pinch. Dash Mitja had taught him that. Instead, Vo tapped the red sword patch sewn on the outside of his jacket, over his heart. Even on a winter longcoat.

  Hell, even on the outside of a suit of heavy EVA armor, according to the regulations.

  “I am General Vo zu Arlo,” he shouted. “Ritter of the Imperial Household. Commander of the 189th. I give you my word.”

  “Arlo?” she said. “The Aquitaine cowboy?”

  Vo grinned.

  Yeah, that might be one way to look at it. Fribourg really didn’t have the right cultural matrix to grasp Fourth Saxon. They went in for Teutonic Knights, not crazy-ass rednecks.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he smiled in what he thought of as the right direction.

  The sound echoed oddly from all the trees, but would come from about where he was facing.

  About where he would put a grenade if she suddenly opened fire on them.

  “Why are you here?” she called.

  “Trying to save anyone I can,” he explained, letting the weight of twenty million souls color his tones. “I would like to evacuate you, if I can. Failing that, we can always drop off some food packs, and maybe a zipbike if you want to leave later.”

  Frightened? Maybe. Armed? Quite possibly, and not a risk he wanted to push. Someone he would leave in place and check in on occasionally if she turned out to be too mean to save? Absolutely.

  Long pause while she thought about it.

  “Who are you, really?” she called, just the edge of sarcasm in her tones.

  “I am the military commander of this whole damned planet, young lady,” Vo snarled back, starting to lose the fine edge of friendly, to the point where he might be willing to let this girl perish here. “You can come out, or I can bloody well leave you here to die on your own. Cutlass force, this is Cutlass Lead. All teams saddle up and prepare to return to your patrol rounds. Cutlass Ten will be along shortly.”

  Danville was still. On Point like a hunting dog. Street glanced over and grinned. The others remained quiet and watched their zones for trouble.

  Vo counted slowly to ten, but she didn’t speak.

  “Decanus Street, I’m cold,” Vo announced loud enough to be heard in a duck blind nearby. “Get the men back to the skiff. Flag this area as inhabited for later teams.”

  Vo turned to Rohm with a frosty smile suited to the cold, nasty weather than hadn’t eased up all that much. The man rose, confused, but remained silent. Around them, the men stood and began to crabwalk away from the hill.

  They got about twenty meters when a voice came after them.

  “Wait,” the girl yelled.

  Vo paused and turned back halfway. The others settled in, carbines ready and fingers on triggers. It wasn’t just the cold that had them on edge.

  “That’s it?” she called. “You’d just leave me out here to die?”

  From the tone, Vo realized he wouldn’t have been the first to do so. To abandon her.

  “Do you want help?” he called back loudly.

  He’d gone through that stage, the angsty despair, with both of his sisters. Fortunately, he’d been on active duty at the time, so he only had to deal with it via letters from home.

  “You’re the Army,” she said. “You’re supposed to help people.”

  “And I can’t make you accept my help, ma’am,” Vo countered. “I’ll have a team swing by every few days and check on you. You can decide when you’re ready for rescue.”

  Vo swung back around and started to walk. There were limits to his patience, and he was at one of them. There was a box of meal packs in the skiff he could toss out the back hatch when they left.

  “I’m coming with you,” she decided.

  Vo counted to three and took a deep breath, controlling his face before he turned. She didn’t need his demons. Nobody did.

  Vo spotted movement as a petite figure in splotched white and green emerged from the thick brush. She had a pulse rifle with a good scope slung across her back, with her hood pulled up and a scarf around most of her face. Bulky, warm clothing covered her, but the girl was still tiny. Perhaps lithe in the way that Nina Vanek, back on Auberon, had been.

  At least three men had weapons pointed at her as she moved forward with open hands. Vo waited. Rohm shifted a few steps further away, but that was his training. The man handled himself professionally.

  “You would have left me?” she asked in a small, hard voice as she got to within a few meters.

  “I have the rest of this planet to tr
y to secure,” Vo bit the words off. “I don’t have time to deal with a hard case and can always drop supplies until you change your mind.”

  “I said I’m coming with you,” the small woman fired back angrily.

  Vo would have guessed her to be more Nada Zupan’s physique, although not quite so tall. Still probably slim and lanky, though.

  And tough enough, resourceful enough to have survived in the Death Zone for six weeks in the worst weather in a generation.

  She studied his face closely. Unlike many of the others, Vo wasn’t wearing a scarf. He was rethinking that as his nose got cold.

  “You really are Arlo,” she observed. “But you’re no Prince Charming.”

  “So I’ve been told,” he replied. “Who are you?”

  “Victoria Ames,” she said, chin coming up in challenge.

  Vo studied the petite woman. Girl. Sixteen looked about right. A hard sixteen, too. The winter gear she was wearing was comparable to his team’s, though. And fit her well.

  “You didn’t acquire that gear recently, did you, Miss Ames?” Vo hazarded a guess.

  The clues were there, if you wanted to interpret them that way. He had seen too many survivors who had emerged with nothing but the clothes on their back, or what they had been able to scrounge up from ruined stores and shattered houses. Vo had lost count of the number of cases of frostbite he had seen treated in the last six weeks.

  The parts of the girl’s face he could see went white for a second, and then flushed red. Not a blush, though. The eyes were too hard. This was anger, but not directed at him.

  At the world, perhaps.

  The chin stayed up, and not just because she had to tilt her head so far back to stare him in the face. The girl probably had a hand on the Fleet Centurion for height, and still weighed a stone less. There was dirt on her face, and hard, blue eyes.

  “No. And?” she demanded.

  Vo shook his head and stared walking. They were out of the rough brush and on the edge of the clearing where Cutlass Ten waited, the turret aimed in this direction but not tracking hard on the girl. Not currently, anyway.

  “Street, mount up,” Vo ordered, glancing at Ames and indicating she should fall in with the rest.

  It wasn’t the least bit accidental that three of his men shifted their attention inward towards the girl as they moved, but nobody was acting aggressive. They had all rescued enough crazed, scarred, or broken people. Angry ones were the easiest to handle.

  At the skiff, Vo turned to her again.

  “Is your weapon safetied, Ames?” he asked, like he would a rookie trooper on her first patrol.

  “Yes,” she snapped back, mildly offended. “Clean, locked, and two pair power packs in my belt, too, General.”

  Several men grinned. You could see it above the scarves when the eyes crinkled.

  “Good,” Vo said. “Rack your weapon to starboard inside and grab a jumpseat.”

  Vo preceded her into the belly of the beast and located the mug of coffee locked into that cupholder and waiting patiently for him to return. He needed warm.

  After a moment he chalked up to shock, Victoria Ames climbed up the steps and entered his command skiff, pulling her rifle off her back under a number of very watchful eyes and putting it next to several other weapons. She looked around, and took a seat diagonal from Vo. Close to the hatch, but across the hatch from him. There weren’t a lot of seats back here, but enough that she could have space on both sides as everyone else sat down.

  “Cutlass Ten, this is Arlo,” he said to the ceiling. “We’re mounted up. All units back to patrol.”

  He studied the young woman for a moment. Poised. Angry. Frightened. Twitchy.

  “Danville,” Vo said. “Grab Trooper Ames some coffee. Cream? Sugar?”

  Had he tossed a live squid into the middle of the floor, the looks he got from everyone, from Ames to Rohm, wouldn’t have been more shocked.

  “Trooper, General?” Rohm sputtered. “Are you mad?”

  “Grand Army of the Republic is about half female, Field Marshal Rohm,” Vo smirked back. “The meaner, tougher, smarter half, based on my experience.”

  Danville had shrugged after a moment and handed the woman a fresh mug, pointing to the supplies nearby to adulterate it.

  Ames watched with hooded eyes as she sipped the black heat. Vo largely ignored her, concentrating on his own mug, at least until she decided to speak. Around them, the men did the same, wary, but relaxing a notch.

  Vo pointed at three of the men as he looked at her.

  “Field Marshal Rohm,” Vo commented. “Decanus Iakov Street, team commander. Curator Hans Danville, team scout. We’ll debrief you later in more detail, but I have one more question first. How long have you been living in that hole?”

  Again the scowl. Visible this time because she had thrown the hood back and lowered the scarf. She could be pretty, but she was tense as the skiff lifted and began to move. However, she had also buckled herself in and didn’t jump too hard. Gunderson or Ozawa would have probably tackled her if she made a suspicious move right now.

  “Fourteen months,” she challenged, waiting for the obvious next question. That other shoe to drop.

  Vo nodded and went back to his coffee. Ames would talk, when she was ready. He had gone through this with Zorana and Sonja, in their time.

  Silence descended, broken only by the hums and bangs of the skiff and the heaters.

  “That’s it?” Ames continued.

  “That’s it,” Vo agreed. “We’re headed into the area that used to be the Imperial Palace, and then will return to our laager in about five hours. You can eat with us until then. We’ll drop you off at a processing center for survivors so they can get you shelter and a chance to start a new life.”

  It was a speech he had repeated too often for one lifetime.

  “There’s no place for me,” Ames said. “I have no family, nowhere to go.”

  Vo couldn’t tell if she was speaking to him or herself. Zorana, after she had divorced the grifter Karol, before she found Andrej, the dentist, had sounded like that.

  “What do you want from this world?” Vo challenged, sounding like he had then.

  Somehow, Vo wasn’t surprised when she reached a hand back and caresses the armored wall of the skiff, as if to reassure her.

  “This,” she admitted in a tight, carefully-controlled voice. “I want to be a soldier.”

  The eyes held a challenge when they came back up to look at him. The men stirred, but held their peace.

  “A girl?” Rohm interjected with disbelief. “Serving in the Army?”

  “Why not?” Ames turned her fury on the Field Marshal as she pointed at Vo. “He says they serve in Aquitaine. The tougher, meaner half of that army. His words.”

  Vo grinned. So did Danville and Street. Probably remembering Lady Moirrey killing the general from Imperial Security during the coup, by firing a shot right past the Emperor’s ear.

  “Women do not serve,” Rohm pronounced, heartily offended.

  “Why not?” Vo asked.

  Again, tossing a live squid into the room would have left things calmer.

  “Are you serious, zu Arlo?” Rohm challenged. It was the voice of aristocracy, talking about those people from beyond the Dragon Gates. People like Vo. “Are you deranged?”

  “No, worse,” Vo smiled serenely at the man. “I’m in charge.”

  Chapter XXX

  Imperial Founding: 179/12/28. IFV Indianapolis, St. Legier

  Em had considered saying something. Arguing with her, at least privately. Putting his foot down about propriety and image.

  In the end, he remained silent, understanding that it was more important that she stand here with him on the flag bridge as they dropped out of JumpSpace. Because these men would take that image, and build upon it in their memories. Make it her legend.

  Every King and Emperor of Fribourg for five centuries had commanded naval forces in battle at some point in their career. Lady
Casey was no different, even if she had served under Jessica in the RAN. These men surrounding them had never imagined that a woman would lead them. Command them.

  Only Tom Provst could legitimately make that claim, before now. It was one of the reasons that Em had put him in charge over more senior admirals. That, and to give the man a reason to continue living.

  Casey certainly looked the part today, standing silent and quietly proud next to him. The man who was her new personal tailor had done her up a pair of soft, black, leather boots, knee-high in back and with a semi-rigid knee-guard in front that came up to mid-thigh as a shield when kneeling or in close combat. The heel was no more than his dress shoes, and the finish was matte, instead of polished. They looked like the sort of thing he would expect on a combat marine, under the plates of field armor.

  Martial, rather than political. Both her and the tailor were making a statement of Lady Casey, the Emperor Karl VIII, as a warrior, and not a princess.

  Casey wore a bodysuit in an off-white that verged on the lightest gray, with a darker-gray hexagonal pattern about three centimeters on the flat sides. The front crossed over, double-breasted, with a seam up the right side of her chest, so that the red sword over her heart was not obstructed or broken. Raglan sleeves in black mirrored her boots. Her sword belt, done in a glossy, black leather, clasped onto a large, steel ring, set on her left hip-bone instead of the center, and split three ways, one across, and then over and under the point of her left hip, anchoring the sword she had chosen to wear today.

  Over that, the new Emperor wore a black and gray jacket with epaulettes and fringe, plus lacing on the short, standing collar and the cuffs. It did not denote a rank or an emblem, but still contributed to the overall military feel. The front could be closed with fourteen silver buttons and it came down to a diamond front, flat across the back at normal length for a jacket and then plunging to a point just above her knees.

  Her only color today was the maroon cloak of a Ritter of the Imperial Household, tied at her throat and with the Imperial Eagle on the front. Her face was washed out, but even Em could see the careful effort she and Moirrey had put in, to color her into something normal. The pain was still there, new lines etched into a face too-young for that sort of hurt, but images of her taken today would show her strength and resolve, drawn from both sides of the family.