Auberon (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 1)

by Blaze Ward

Then he looked closely at the M–5 fighter. It was pointed to the left, so the only name visible on the cockpit was Darya’s callsign nickname, Bitter Kitten, painted on it.

  Had this new commander memorized those as well?

  An equally puzzled Flight Centurion broke ranks and emerged. She crossed the small space and saluted. Denis watched Keller return the salute and direct the pilot to stand next to her, facing the rest of the crew.

  This welcome ceremony had definitely gone very, very far off script.

  “I had considered,” Keller began, booming such a big sound from such a small woman, “taking it easy for a few days. Getting to know all of you a little more personally before we dove into our next mission. This is a new ship and a new crew for me, after all. Some commanders like to ease into things, to give everyone a chance to know each other better.”

  Denis could imagine the shocked looks on the faces beside and behind him. They were just now waking up to what this woman, this Command Centurion Jessica Keller, represented. They were used to Command Centurion Kwok, who did everything by the books.

  Denis could hear the intakes of breath, or hisses depending.

  They had apparently tugged on a tiger’s tail.

  “In fact,” he heard her continue in that same booming voice that sounded so conversational, “I plan to add a suggestion box in Hallway Four, near Engineering, just so people can make suggestions, signed or anonymous, on how things could be done better. You are a good crew, you should have good ideas.”

  Her voice was a high alto, pitched just right for the room. Denis had heard others with that timbre. It was a learned skill that good commanders mastered.

  “You shouldn’t think of it as a doubloon nailed to main mast, people. I want to know how we can be the best.”

  “Because,” she continued, “I believe we are ready to face confrontation and danger together right now. We are ready to prove to Fleet Command that Auberon is worthy of their trust in us.”

  Denis watched her fan out the stack of envelops in her hand and study them for a moment. He took a deep breath that mirrored hers.

  “With that in mind,” she said firmly, “I am declaring a training exercise, ship–wide, beginning now. First Officer Jež and I have been assassinated. The assassin has been killed. Tactical Centurion Strnad, you are in command until the exercise is completed.”

  Denis almost relaxed. Almost. This would be a test for what had been his crew, and would reflect on him as a trainer and leader, but there was nothing to do now but watch. And learn. There were many things to learn from watching this woman, this whirlwind.

  Nothing he had read about her had prepared him for what she was like in person.

  Senior Centurion Strnad blinked once, possibly, and then came to rigid attention. She was a big woman, almost 1.9 meters, but built at a perfectly normal ratio for someone an entire head shorter. It was only up close that her scale became apparent. Her black hair bobbed as she looked down at her approaching commander.

  He watched Keller walk to the woman to his immediate left and hand her four envelopes. Glancing down, he could see they were numbered. Just how detailed was her planning?

  “I will observe, and occasionally offer advice, or information that you would normally have access to, if you were to open my safe or Jež’s, and read the contents. Since that is not necessary, we will remain as scorekeepers for now.”

  Denis watched as Keller moved down the line several bodies to stand in front of one of the officers he would not have expected to be singled out. She smiled at the man who looked surprised.

  “Commander Strnad, my orders, as contained in your envelope #1, were to rendezvous with the rest of our squadron. You will make Junior Centurion Zivkovic your Flag Centurion for the remainder of this exercise.”

  Denis couldn’t tell who was the more surprised of the three. Zivkovic was a brilliant young officer, but had come from a very poor family. Both men were Scholarship Students, which, upon reflection, covered about half of the officers here, including the commander. Was that what Keller was testing?

  “Commander Strnad,” Jessica continued, “you will now read your orders. I will let you know which envelope to open next when it is appropriate.”

  Denis watched his second officer slide a finger under a seam to open it. Was that wax?

  She pulled out a piece of heavy paper and unfolded it. Denis caught a glance of spidery handwriting written in bright blue ink.

  A few moments passed, hushed, incipient.

  Tamara Strnad looked up at her new Command Centurion and fixed her with a hard stare for a moment. Denis watched Keller nod briefly, warmly, encouragingly.

  Maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t completely pissed off their new commander on her first day.

  “All hands,” Strnad called loudly. She didn’t have the tone or cadence of Keller’s voice, but it carried to the assembled crew. “Bring the ship to active alert. Primary command officers to the bridge.”

  Strnad pulled out a smaller envelope and handed it to Auberon’s Pilot, her hands only shaking a little as she did so.

  “Centurion Zupan, you will bring the engines to ninety–five percent and plot a minimum time course to these coordinates. We will make the transition to Jumpspace from there.”

  Strnad turned to look back at the Flight Deck crew, three rows behind her. “Clear the flight deck and prepare for combat launches. You have at least ninety–six hours before we engage. Prepare accordingly. Move it people. The clock is running!”

  Denis felt an almost out–of–body experience watching the crew suddenly break formation and sprint to their stations.

  Auberon had just jumped feet first into the war.

  Chapter VI

  Date of the Republic October 1, 392 Kismayo system

  The lightning was there. Jessica felt a twinge race down her spine.

  It was a huge gamble, unleashing the crew like this. It would be easy to break them, break their morale, shatter their comradery doing this.

  It was also the fastest way to weld them together into a weapon, to fashion Auberon as a saber for her left hand.

  What she intended to do, Jessica required far more than just an able crew. And she didn’t have three years to work them up to the level she needed.

  The First Lord had said it many times over the years. “Risk equals reward.” Or, as she privately thought of it, “Live by the sword…”

  Jessica frequently lived by the sword.

  She snagged Bitter Kitten by the sleeve as the woman started to join her mates.

  The pilot gave her a shocked look, partly for the physical contact, partly because her new commander was apparently much stronger than she looked.

  Jessica smiled up at her.

  “Lagunov,” she said quietly as the storm erupted around them, “You are also a casualty for now. I would appreciate if you could accompany me to the bridge with Centurion Jež, and then join us for dinner later when everyone settles down.”

  Jessica watched the shocked look grow, peak, and then recede.

  “Aye, sir,” she whispered back.

  “Good,” Jessica said. “The mob should be about cleared out. Let’s join them.”

  Jessica watched the slowest members of the crew finish racing up the broad staircase to the main deck. She paused to make sure she had two followers behind her, three with Marcelle, and fell into the wake.

  The bridge was in a state of nervous energy when she arrived, as the junior officers who had been manning everything during the ceremony below were bumped from their chairs and replaced by senior staff. Most remained, tucking themselves into corners, training stations, or finding a section of wall to occupy quietly.

  Jessica slid next to one such crewman, a young man with the single broken stripe of a Cornet on his sleeve.

  There was a momentary look of utter horror crossed his face as he realized the person he had just accidentally bumped into was his new commanding officer.

  She smiled and gestured for h
im to stay put.

  Marcelle had taken up a station by the main hatch, next to the security marine, where she could easily escape the bridge to run errands as needed. Always planning ahead.

  Lagunov had ended up next to Jessica, with Jež just beyond. Even better.

  She and her First Officer, her Exec, could talk about the exercise in front of the pilot, and the whole conversation would be reported ship–wide within a day. It would be far easier than having meetings to brief everyone.

  Jessica studied the bridge for a few moments. It was much longer than Brightoak’s had been, as befit a larger vessel with a small flight wing, and held about twice as many people normally, doubled again with the training exercise underway.

  The bubbling noise was growing as people whispered to their mates, and the filtration system kicked on to deal with the sudden crush of bodies and the smell of excitement.

  Tamara Strnad had settled into the central chair. She looked around for a moment at the mess and found Jessica over her left shoulder. She gave Jessica a look to ask a silent question.

  Jessica smiled back and nodded as if to say It’s your bridge. Go ahead.

  Strnad took a deep breath while Jessica watched.

  Jessica understood. She had been in that chair a number of times during these kinds of training scenarios, once with the man who would be First Lord watching.

  “Everyone who was on duty,” Tamara called loudly over the din, “if you just got bumped, you can retire to the Emergency Bridge and watch, or go catch up on sleep or paperwork. Senior crew will fill the rest of this shift and then cover their normal one. Someone call the wardroom and ask them to fire up the brew pots.”

  The noise surged for a moment, only to be silenced by Strnad’s harsh call of, “Now,” cutting across them.

  Jessica watched the bridge empty as if someone had pulled a plug. The junior Cornet standing next to her started to leave, but she pointed to him and then to a training station nearby.

  “Sit. Watch. Learn,” she said quietly.

  The man goggled at her for a moment, and then rushed to sit down.

  Strnad watched it play out and nodded, before she turned back to the men and women in front of her.

  “Engineering. Status?” she called.

  Jessica was impressed. For all the obvious adrenalin in her system, Tamara sounded like a commander. It was not always an easy thing to do.

  Auberon’s Engineer had always struck Jessica as amusing, reading his file. Vilis Ozolinsh was short, broad, and ethnically Mongolian, but sounded like the bluest of blue bloods from the Fifty Families. He was from one of the noblest clans, but had fallen in love with jumpdrives at an early age and never looked back.

  He looked up from his complex board and turned to the Pilot without looking at the central chair. “Power is currently at eighty–four percent and climbing. Reactors stable within normal parameters. We are prepared for maximum effort at any time you desire.”

  Strnad nodded. “Navigation. Status?”

  The Pilot’s fingers danced across her complex flight board like a concert pianist playing a recital. She smiled, lighting up an otherwise plain and somewhat homely face. Her long blond ponytail bobbed in time to some inner rhythm.

  “Two course options available, Commander,” she said. “Straight shot out will take us about four hours to reach the jump. Or we can dive into the gravity well, slingshot once around the planet, and shave about thirty minutes off our ETA. Downside, it will make life hell for the shuttle pilot, once she drops her cargo and wants to get back to the surface. Orders?”

  Jessica watched Tamara weigh the options in her head for a second. Tamara turned to look at her for a second. Jessica shrugged.

  “Go for the slingshot, Zupan,” she called. “Better a minute early than a minute late.”

  Jessica smiled. That was the unofficial motto of the Fleet, whispered to each other while racing between classes.

  The pianist smiled and began a silent concerto on her desktop.

  Jessica always thought that her inner ear felt the shifts as a big vessel turned, even though scientists had long since concluded that the effects of the gravplates created an inertial field around a vessel like a bubble. Tea she was drinking in a mug might not ripple, but her ear knew.

  From her corner, Jessica watched Strnad eye the three remaining envelopes briefly, speculatively, before tucking them down the side of her chair by her leg.

  When she opened those, that was where it would get interesting.

  Chapter VII

  Date of the Republic October 1, 392 Kismayo system

  It was the last of the tea.

  Tamara emptied the last dregs in her mug and locked it back into the holder. She had already gone to pee once, an hour ago. It would look bad to go again so soon. Adrenalin was an utter bitch, especially when you had a commander with a rep like Keller’s.

  Tamara scanned the bridge, taking in the commander, the XO, and the fighter pilot huddled in one corner. The whispers were too quiet to hear over the air system, so she could only guess what was being said. Hopefully, she hadn’t looked too bad on her first day with the new boss.

  She checked her readouts again to be sure, and the spoke up. It was unlikely that there was anybody on the bridge without a little countdown clock on their screen, but just in case…

  “Navigation. Time to jump coordinates?” she called.

  She watched Nada Zupan, the Pilot, come out of a fugue like a swimmer surfacing. The long blond ponytail snapped once as her head shivered.

  “ETA fourteen minutes, sir,” she replied, quiet, intent. “We’ll actually be far enough clear of the gravity well in six that we could crash jump, if we had to.”

  “Hmmm. Ozolinsh,” Tamara continued, “what would happen if we had to jump right now?”

  The Engineer looked over a shoulder at her as if she had asked him to sacrifice his first born.

  “We’d probably be able to get about twelve or fifteen light hours out before the calibrations came apart and we spent a day fixing everything,” he growled. “In seven minutes, the calibrations can be redone inline, and tweaked when we come out the other side. In fifteen, you won’t notice we’ve transitioned.”

  “Roger that,” Tamara replied with a smile. Her orders had simply said to take command and bring the ship to this point before awaiting further orders. And she still had three envelopes left.

  Tamara suppressed a shiver at what might be in them.

  Oh, what the hell.

  She pulled the three out. Each had a number hand–written on the outside. 2. 3. 4.

  Tamara turned to look over her shoulder. Command Centurion Keller stared back, a hard and unreadable look on her face.

  Tamara held up the three envelopes and looked a question Keller, comfortably seated in the corner.

  She was rewarded by the commander holding up three fingers.

  Tamara cracked open the wax seal and pulled out the paper inside to read.

  Oh, my.

  She called up a navigation gazetteer and cycled through planetary systems until she found the one she wanted.

  Yes. That’s what I thought. More adventures for the crew. Wonder if I’ll still be in charge for that? Might be fun. Might totally suck.

  She pressed a button her screen.

  “Navigation,” she called, loud enough to wake everyone up from any daydreams that might have intruded. “I’m sending you coordinates for the far edge of the Simeon system. Lay them in and prepare to jump.”

  Tamara took a deep breath, aware she was showing off, but understanding that she needed to right now. Command Centurion Keller had a reputation as a brilliant tactical officer, but also a good commander who took the words of the command orders seriously, to “exercise excellence and demand the same of her crew.”

  “Engineering,” Tamara continued, “Gazetteer says eighty hours to Simeon for a well–founded ship. What’s your estimate?”

  Ozolinsh fixed her with his best withering stink�
��eye. “When we jump in eleven minutes,” he replied firmly, not willing to give an inch on damaging his engines without a fight, “Seventy–two hours. If you jump in six minutes, seventy–seven. Your choice.”

  Tamara fought down the smile. Needling the man was fun, but inappropriate now that she was the commander. She understood suddenly why Keller looked so harsh.

  She was never off duty.

  Will I grow up to be like that?

  Tamara thought about it for a second.

  Do I want to be that successful? That respected?

  Yes.

  She started to work on what she considered her Command Scowl. Hopefully she would get more chances to use it.

  “All right,” she said suddenly, thumbing a button to bring the Flight Deck into the conversation. “Department heads, please rearrange your schedules to have senior staff come on duty in roughly seventy hours. As you may remember, Simeon is a naval weapon’s range, and we will be exercising bangs and booms when we get there. Flight Deck, we’ll discuss weapons load–out tomorrow and then plan sortie schedules.”

  Tamara watched a scrolling marquee message appear on her board from the Flight Deck Commander. “Roger that. Iskra,” was repeated until she pushed a button to acknowledge it.

  They hadn’t been nearly as surprised down on the flight deck as the looks and gasps on the bridge had been.

  Tamara smiled. Auberon really was going to war.

  Chapter VIII

  Date of the Republic October 2, 392 Jumpspace outbound from Kismayo system

  She considered belching.

  That had been an utterly amazing shrimp and spinach risotto, followed by a tiramisu that was divine. Jessica watched the Wardroom’s Chief Steward remove the last dessert plates from in front of her, Bitter Kitten, and Denis Jež before he refilled mugs and disappeared.

  She smiled. Someone had taken the time to research the new Command Centurion in far greater depth and detail than the command staff had thought to do. It was too bad that it was her new chef.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Her mug of coffee was even the right roast. Who said life on the frontier had to be all deprivation?