Auberon (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 1)

by Blaze Ward

  “Primaries as well, ma’am?” a young man asked nervously from in front of her.

  “Affirmative,” Tamara replied calmly. “Primaries, Secondaries, missiles, and kitchen sinks.”

  “Acknowledged.” The two weapons officers managed to speak in perfect synch.

  “I will need authorization to unlock the weapon systems, sir,” the older one, the man in charge of gunnery, continued.

  “Stand by,” Tamara replied as she flipped through the envelopes in front of her.

  Jessica had already left her seat and approached quickly. “It’s not there, Strnad,” she said quietly. “Allow me?”

  Tamara looked up with a smile. “Thanks, commander.”

  Jessica concentrated as she typed. The code was a random ten–digit hash of numbers and letters. “It’s against regulations to have it written down anywhere other than in the safe. Even for training exercises, but you would have been able to retrieve it from there, if I was really dead.”

  “Aye, sir.” She looked relieved.

  Jessica returned to her seat and buckled the belt, just in case.

  She watched her Tactical Officer, nee–Commander, take a deep breath. “Emergence in thirty seconds.”

  Ξ

  Enej Zivkovic looked at the once–unfamiliar Flag console layout and memorized the current settings and placements. Normally, he handled piloting and sensor duties, but he had spent the last few days in a crash course.

  There was nothing about being a Flag Centurion he couldn’t handle.

  Coordinate communications with the rest of the squadron for a Fleet Lord, or, in this case, a senior Command Centurion in charge. Make the occasional tactical observation for the commander, translate broad tactical commands into specific orders for ships on the fly.

  Make sure everybody was on task.

  It was basically multi–level chess, in real time. He was good at that. Why the new commander had put him in charge wasn’t something he was going to ask. It was a gift horse kind of thing. And momma always told him not to look gift horses in the mouth.

  Besides, he was used to being much smarter than his commanders. Enej wasn’t so sure with this one. Something about the way she moved and looked at people.

  And those envelopes were really cool. Totally archaic, and yet perfect for conducting this kind of field exercise. There was no way someone could hack the computer file and read things ahead of time. Not that he would ever try.

  “Emergence in thirty seconds,” Second Officer Strnad intoned across the silent bridge.

  Enej called up the stats for Rajput and CR–264 and slid them to one side of his screen.

  Rajput was an older design, even older than he was.

  Let’s see, class ship and the only one ever built.

  Dramatically up–gunned standard destroyer design, all guns and no butter, as his father would have said. Almost tough enough to take on a light cruiser, but too fragile, plus cramped and extremely hard to maintain. Useful if you needed to kick a door in, not so good in a general fleet engagement.

  He could see why she ended up out here, the only one of her kind.

  CR–264 was more interesting, anyway. After eighteen years as a Type: Cutter/Revenue, she had impressed into the Republic Navy as a very light corvette, and classed as a Fleet Escort. The rest of the class had been eventually retired, and they didn’t even make them anymore. Cutters these days were smaller and operated in packs. And Corvettes were larger.

  Enej checked the readout again to be sure. CR–264’s whole weapons system consisted of two Type–2 beams forward and four Type–3 beams, two on each side? That’s it? Hell, Auberon’s two S–11 Saturation fighters and her Gunship were more heavily armed. But she could also go nearly a year without resupply if her environmental systems were well–tuned and the crew was careful about what they grew and what they ate?

  Really? A whole year?

  He made a note to look up the history of the class when he got off duty. That didn’t sound right, but it was kinda awesome if it was.

  Nobody did that any more.

  “Ten seconds to emergence,” came the call. Enej turned his attention back to the console.

  One quick pass confirmed that everything was ready. Auberon was broadcasting her ID signal, scrambled on the latest fleet cypher. Daniel Giroux had the Sciences systems on full passive scan. Tobias Brewster was ready to shoot anything that moved. Nina Vanek had the defensive screens on and all the Type–1 and Type–2 defensive beams charged.

  And…blink.

  Some people couldn’t feel a ship come out of Jumpspace. Enej always thought that was weird, because it would wake him from a dead sleep. It wasn’t bad, just a hiccup, or maybe a ripple across the community swimming pool. But there it was.

  His board came live quickly.

  Okay. Rajput is there, closer in to the entrance of the weapons range. CR–264 was keeping station, escorting her against anybody coming out to play. We landed a little short. No, scratch that. We landed perfectly for them to go from a dead stop to come up to speed with us so they could blink hop briefly into Jumpspace and come out over there to run the range. That was pretty good timing.

  “Commander,” he said, training putting his brain on autopilot, “We have identified Rajput and CR–264. Squadron and Flag communications are on channel four in standard cypher.”

  Time to earn his keep.

  Ξ

  Tamara practiced her Command Scowl. What was about to happen might be the most fun she had on this entire cruise, but commanders weren’t supposed to smile.

  Command was serious business.

  Zivkovic seemed to be handling the Flag Centurion duties well. Everyone else was on pins and needles. And only she knew what Commander Keller had planned.

  She pushed the button that projected her voice everywhere, including inside the refrigerator on E–deck and the aft female toilets on B. “Auberon, this is the bridge,” she intoned. “We have made it to Simeon and met up with the rest of our squadron. We will shortly return to Jumpspace and then make a short hop. All hands to battle stations.”

  Lights went red everywhere.

  Tamara had always wanted to do that. That was what command was all about. She suppressed a giggle.

  “Flag Centurion,” she continued, trying to be calm and knowing her voice was too bright, “I am transmitting a sailing plan to your station. Communicate it to the entire squadron immediately and have them prepare for jump.”

  She watched Enej push his buttons and talk into a sound–deadening microphone.

  Tamara knew the message had been conveyed when the Pilot actually turned and looked at her across the bridge. Nada Zupan, the Pilot, didn’t say anything, but the look conveyed a wealth of surprise and confusion, followed the same sort of evil grin Tamara was fighting to keep off her face right now.

  They both glanced at the Gunnery Centurion, Tobias Brewster. The Creator’s gift to the women of the fleet. Just ask him. The favored son of a major Fleet Lord, scion of the family. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

  Tamara was pretty sure every female on the ship had a Tobias story to tell, as well as several of the men.

  The best revenge, bucko, is served ice cold.

  Ξ

  Tamara counted down the moments for the second hop to complete.

  She knew she was keyed up, but what was about to happen was something Auberon had never done before, as far as she knew with this crew.

  The tactical plot went live as they dropped into real space. No more estimates. Hard scan figures began to fill in the spaces around them.

  “Flag, have the Flight Deck crash launch the entire wing now,” she said, trying to bounce calmness off the bulkheads when she really wanted to hoot and dance.

  “Orders are as before with one change. We will rendezvous with the entire wing at point Epsilon.” Tamara waited for that to register on people’s minds. Who was paying attention besides Keller?

  On her workstation’s screen, she saw the three
big blips line up, just like she had ordered. Exactly wrong from the standard Order of Battle. CR–264 was in the lead, rather than tucked in close on a flank. Rajput was lined up with the other two and at the tail of the line, but on a higher elevation where she could bring her guns to bear across the entire engagement sphere.

  Tamara reached down and toggled a physical switch. It was one of the few on her console that was not a video touchscreen. It had a nice, reassuring solidity as it clicked into place.

  For a moment, victory leaked out all over her face. She quickly squelched it.

  “Auberon, this is the bridge,” she calmly announced. “All weapons are set to training mode until further notice. Flag, have the squadron conform to our maneuvers. Helm, come to heading 351 by 10 by 18 and accelerate to flank speed. We will be running down Lane 4 to engage a hostile battle squadron. Initiate training exercise.”

  Tamara leaned back and sucked in a deep breath silently.

  On her left, she watched slow horror dawn on the face of the Gunnery officer. He had apparently only now caught up with her. On her right, Tamara watched the defensive systems, shields, short–range missiles, and smaller beam emplacements come live and cycle through their targeting solutions.

  Downrange, satellites and automated combat simulators came live as Auberon approached.

  Tamara almost felt out of body as she watched. Normally, the duty of the Second Officer was to oversee tactical duties. The Commander issued priorities, she picked targets, and Nina Vanek would engage them with all the full defensive array.

  Tobias Brewster, the Gunnery Centurion, almost never had anything to do.

  Hell, Tamara couldn’t even remember the last time the Secondaries had been fired in anger, let alone the monstrous Primaries.

  Maybe, if he hadn’t been such an asshole, she would have given him more than a few seconds warning.

  Tamara looked over again at the perfect hair and perfectly–manicured nails, and remembered the last time he had propositioned her.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Ξ

  Jessica watched the by–play around her as Auberon came out of Jumpspace and aligned for combat. Without Jež in charge, some interesting dynamics came to the fore, as she had expected they would.

  The Gunnery Centurion was the most entertaining.

  Jessica had watched every other person on the bridge running through some sort of simulation, usually as a training refresher, or at least to fill the time, while they had made both jumps. Brewster had apparently spent his time thinking deep thoughts.

  Certainly, he hadn’t been preparing.

  Right now, he was scrambling to align the weapon turrets, something he should have done the moment they came back into space.

  Jessica wrote herself a quick note on a clipboarded piece of paper. Written records lasted forever, but weren’t in any system unless she chose to add them. It was a useful filing system.

  Because they made very little sound themselves, each weapon was coded to a tone so the bridge crew could identify them. The defensive array, a Type–2 and two Type–1’s on each flank, pulsed in a staccato symphony as they fired. The Music of War, some wag had called it, once upon a time.

  On her screen, Jessica watched as the flight wing emerged like angry hornets and set off down Lane 6 to test their mettle strafing and dogfighting, escorted into battle by the Gunship Necromancer and leading the Assault Shuttle Cayenne behind.

  What idiot painted a dropship bright red, anyway?

  A deeper, pulsed tone, got her attention. Auberon had fired one of her two Primaries at a closing automaton meant to simulate a destroyer. And missed. Badly. She ticked a mark on her page.

  Tamara responded by pushing Auberon down hard into a new plane, like a submersible vessel going for deep water. Ahead, CR–264 turned enough to fire everything she had at the drone, not that it would do much, but in battle, it might distract a crew. Rajput came over the top like the cavalry and fired everything she had into the target in one narrow salvo of ravening destructive fury.

  Orders flew thick and fast about her as she listened. CR–264 was about to be surrounded by a wolfpack of simulated corvettes and mauled, badly out of position as a result of saving Auberon.

  This time, Auberon’s other Primary hit, taking one of the enemy vessels off–line.

  The Type–3’s lanced out as well, scoring a hit and distracting the enemy ships as CR–264 blasted straight through the gap and Rajput cycled her weapons into the fray.

  A sepulchral tune indicated that Auberon had sustained a hit in the exchange.

  Apparently, a missile had gotten through and was rated as a hit by the gaming computer. Jessica checked the simulated destruction and listened to the Damage Control Parties wade into the fray on the lower decks.

  It had been a long time since she had seen combat scores so low.

  Jessica made more notes. She really missed Brightoak.

  Chapter XI

  Date of the Republic October 7, 392 In the Simeon system

  Jessica sat at her desk, in her new office, and scowled her most fierce scowl. Often, it was for show. Today, she was truly angry.

  Career–destroying angry.

  “And when I reviewed the statistics for the exercise,” she continued, cold, sharp, deathly as she looked at the man’s face, “I note that you scored a forty–seven percent hit ratio. That is the worst I have ever seen in the field. Fortunately, for you, it is not the worst score ever recorded for Simeon, so your name doesn’t go up on the wall over there.”

  She paused, letting the energy bleed off instead of building to a peak.

  Across from her, sitting perfectly still and as white as a ghost, Gunnery Centurion Tobias Brewster looked like he was trying to disappear from sight.

  She let the moment drag. Brewster did not appear to be a popular person, either with his comrades or his subordinates. Unlike, say, the Engineer, Ozolinsh, or her new Flag Centurion. There was nothing in Brewster’s records, but the rumors had been there. Wealth, power, upbringing. A bully and a Don Juan. And a disciple of the former commander, Kwok, who was a scion of Loncar.

  Jessica looked through the young man.

  To his credit, he sat perfectly still and met her gaze.

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself, mister?” she rasped, anger threatening to overflow.

  “It’s not my fault,” he offered weakly, failing in his attempt to sound charming.

  “It most assuredly is, Brewster,” she pounced, fingers tapping the desk ominously. “Your weapons. Your station. Your failure.”

  She watched him blink. He swallowed past a throat that sounded tight.

  “I can do better,” he finally said.

  Jessica’s chin came up. “Can you?” she said. “Can you really? Because I would be happy to sign your transfer request right now. You could be off this ship in a few hours and back to a cushy job in days.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. She could see him getting his feet under him as he spoke. “I screwed up, but I can salvage it.”

  “Not on my bridge, Brewster,” she growled, “but I will make you a deal, if you are interested.”

  “Sir?”

  “I will disrate you as a Gunner, right now, and transfer you down to the emergency bridge,” she continued. “You can requalify from scratch on every weapons system, on every simulation lane at Simeon. Or you can transfer out right now and I will put nothing at all in your record to indicate that we ever had this conversation. What will it be?”

  “Everyone will know, sir,” he said, morose.

  “That’s not my problem, Brewster. I’m not the one who was completely unprepared and tried to set a record low score.”

  “I’m better that that, commander,” he pleaded. “I can prove it to you.”

  Jessica considered the young man before her. A single day had aged him several years. At this rate, he might be a grown–up soon.

  “If you stay,” she said finally, “I will work you like a do
g. Every scut duty will be yours until someone else screws up worse. And the offer to let you go free will be off the table. The only way out after you leave this room will be to resign your commission.”

  She fixed him with a hard stare.

  He flinched for a moment, and then met her squarely.

  “What will it be, Brewster?” she asked.

  “I’ll stay, sir,” he said quietly.

  She nodded. “Report to the Emergency Bridge for your next shift, then. And may the Creator have mercy on your soul.”

  Tobias Brewster stood and saluted her. Technically incorrect indoors, but he did it well, and it seemed to come from the heart.

  There might be something salvageable from this punk after all.

  She nodded to his salute. “Send Vanek in when you go.”

  “Aye, sir.” And he was gone.

  Ξ

  Jessica took a deep breath and tried to control her anger at Brewster. Even in defeat, he was trying to charm his way out of being sent to the principal’s office.

  It probably worked to his benefit most of the time.

  The door opened and the Defense Centurion stepped in.

  Jessica sized her up.

  Nina Vanek was a small woman. No, petite. Almost a waif. Jessica had felt like a giant standing next to her, or an ogre. According to the personnel files, Vanek had nearly washed out of the Academy on more than one occasion for being underweight, in spite of the best work of three physical fitness instructors and a dietician.

  She entered now with a stack of books, actual paper volumes from the ship’s library from the look of them, and a portable projector under one arm.

  “Ma’am,” Nina said simply and came to as close to attention as she could without spilling everything.

  “Sit, Centurion,” Jessica said. “Explain all this, please.”

  She watched the tiny woman set the books to one side and the projector in the middle of her desk.

  She did not turn it on, yet.

  Nina took the seat and visibly marshalled her thoughts. Then she stopped and re–thought them, again, apparently. “I scored eighty–seven percent on the run at Simeon,” she said. “Passable, but we would still be in drydock for several months after suffering at least two major hits.”