by John Carr
II
“What of the Claimant fleet from Aquitaine System, Second Rank?”
“Nine capital ships and twenty support vessels, First Rank.”
Diettinger stared at her.”Is that confirmed?”
“No, First Rank,” Althene’s tone made it clear what she thought of such boasts. “So far Aquitaine has sent only one fast courier with the information on the composition of its fleet. The Claimant Viceroy of the Imperial sector which is administered from Aquitaine has sent word that all the ships in his task force are undergoing ’last-minute upgrades with advanced weaponry from Aquitaine’s secret weapon-research facilities.’ That’s a quote.”
“Has the word ‘claimant’ ever been so aptly used, Second Rank.” Diettinger asked rhetorically. “Let’s not count Aquitaine’s ships until they show up, shall we?”
“Of course, First Rank.” After a brief silence, Althene added, “May I congratulate you, First Rank, on your promotion to Fleet First Rank? I wish to express my personal belief, as well as that of my fellow officers on your staff, that the honor is well-deserved.”
Diettinger was looking at some point suspended in the air before him. “Thank you, Second Rank.” He turned to look up at her, and Althene was struck by something in his face. It was not an expression; rather, it was almost a glow to his skin, a shining of the eyes. There is a word for that look, she thought, and although she felt sure that she knew what that word was, before she could remember it, Diettinger said, “I know of no finer crew in the fleet.”
Saurons did not praise lightly; excellence in performance was an expression of devotion to duty, and such devotion was expected, a cornerstone of Sauron society. Whatever the name for what she had seen in Diettinger’s face, it was forgotten in her own flush of pride. She had long since admitted to herself that she was in love with Galen Diettinger; now she knew that she would die for him as well.
Diettinger thought a moment, then: “What data have we regarding the commander of the Falkenberg?”
“A detailed performance record, First Rank.”
“Put it through to my quarters.”
“At once, First Rank,” she lowered her head and left.
After his Second Rank had left, Diettinger took a data-chit from his desk. It could not be loaded in the Fomoria’s computer, not yet. To do so risked its being found, and its being found risked...
Diettinger smiled, cheerlessly.
Everything, he thought. Literally, everything.
II
It had been three weeks since Fomoria had returned to Sauron System, and Diettinger’s construction of a viable fleet had been little short of miraculous, even by Sauron standards of efficiency. Most of that fleet was comprised of transports for the legions of troops which would follow the main fleet into Sparta System after the fleet battle had been won, legions which would land upon the Empire’s capital world and win mastery of the stars for Sauron ... and her allies, of course. All those worlds that had come to believe they could govern themselves more effectively than could an Empire whose only interest in them had come to be in their tax revenue.
The bulk of the ships which would win the war were due back from Tanith any day. In fact, they were overdue, but no one in the High Command was concerned; rather the reverse. Every day, which passed beyond the expected triumphal return, brought a new round of confident affirmations that the destruction being visited upon the Imperial naval forces was that much greater. Phrases like “Good hunting,” “Target shooting” and “Object lesson” began making the rounds, as each person who commented on the still-absent First Fleet strove to find ever more positive interpretations for the delay.
To ease some of the tension, and to allow the various Alliance commanders to meet one another and their Sauron counterparts, a gala had been arranged for commanders and senior staff.
Ironically, the event was catered by a firm from Aquitaine, which represented that political entity’s sole representation at the gala.
The overhead observation dome was an illusion. It was certainly a dome, and was indeed meant for observation, but the panorama of stars above and the arc of the Homeworld at the lower edge were projected by the same technology that made the Tactical Display on Fomoria’s bridge the best view on the ship. Here, however, no targeting enhancements were displayed - nor any other military data. From Orbital Station Four, the view was only for relaxation. The fact that it was projected onto the inside of armored walls eight feet thick could, for the evening, be forgotten.
By any standard, the gala could be judged a success. The mix of sexes was exactly equal, thanks to judicious balancing of invitations. Unlike many of their allies and all of the most loyal Imperial societies, Saurons made few sexual distinctions in their military, so the attractive brunette an Alliance captain might ask to dance could as easily be a Vessel First Rank as a Socio-Ops advisor. And whatever else could be said about them, even the Empire could not claim that Saurons were an ugly breed of humans; rather, the reverse held true.
The evening therefore allowed dozens of individuals who had been cooped up for weeks aboard starships to relax, mingle and wonder what was holding up the real party; the one that would come the day after Sparta’s capitulation.
If anyone was impatient, it was only because everyone was eager for that final drive on Sparta, and that drive could not begin without the return of the hundreds of victorious ships from Tanith. The captain of the Aquitaine courier (the Aquitaine fleet still had not arrived) winked and opined that the notorious Vessel - now Fleet - First Rank Galen Diettinger probably had more than enough ships right now to go in and take Sparta and every world in between.
Diettinger smiled. “Aquitaine is on the way to Sparta, isn’t it?” he asked politely.
Some of the Aquitaine captain’s drink apparently went down the wrong way, and he excused himself, pale for all his coughing.
The New Ireland senior captain, Brian Connolly of the Banshee, cocked his head and favored Diettinger with a crooked smile. “That was a wicked thing to say, Your Grace.” The New Irelanders referred to all Fleet Commanders by aristocratic honorifics. They seemed to delight in their ability to use the phrase without sounding in the least deferential, and although Diettinger didn’t care for the title, he could afford some concessions to diplomacy.
“My apologies, Captain Connolly. I confess, my tolerance for fence-sitters is wearing thin.”
“Hear, hear.”James Shannon lifted his glass. Again.”It’s my patience that’s thinning, Your Grace, that and my lads on the Ire. I hope we’ll not hold back waiting for Aquitaine once your First Fleet returns from Tanith. The Ire will be ready to make Jump one minute after the first Sauron ship gets home.”
Althene smiled at the affected accent and inflection of the New Irelanders. As man had spread out from Earth into the colonized worlds that had started as the CoDominium and grown into the Empire, it had become a matter of racial and national pride to retain as much as could be remembered of the old, Earthly ways. She had heard that the lilting, musical patois of the New Irelanders’ Anglic was in perfect counterpoint to the rough, highland brogue affected by the New Scots, a world as fiercely loyal to the Empire as New Ireland was devoted to her own independence. Animosity between the populations of the two planets was so great that it was a wonder either had ships to spare for the war efforts of their respective allies. But ships by the dozen and troops by the thousands had gone forth into battle from New Ireland and New Scotland since the beginning of the war. And in their dozens, and in their thousands, they had died.
“Never doubt it, Your Grace,” Connolly added, and seeing the effect New Ireland speech patterns had on Diettinger’s extremely attractive Second Rank, turned to Shannon, “Sure now, Jamie, and if piss an’ vinegar were thrust and torpedoes, ye’d be in Sparta a month gone by, and that’s the truth.”
Shannon turned an eye toward Althene and smiled wisely. No hope there, Brian, he thought to himself. This one’s taken and taken again. But I wonde
r if that dark-eyed lovely approaching us now - the one who conns the Damaris - is too awfully married?
Diettinger, oblivious, turned to greet the new arrival and her escort. Emory was on the arm of a human norm nearly as tall as Diettinger himself.
But whereas Diettinger was fair, solidly built, with flashes of humor that came frequently to his eyes, this man was darker, thinner, almost grim. Something about him made Althene uneasy, but not uncomfortable. His hair was nondescript; light brown or dark blonde, his eyes an equally indeterminate green-brown. He wore an unfamiliar uniform, severe in cut, sparing in decoration, almost Sauron. High black boots, dark blue-grey tunic and trousers, black epaulets, a single gunmetal star on each shoulder and one on each side of his black collar. A black band encircled the cuff on the left wrist of his tunic and bore an ornate silver script which read: “Falkenberg”
“Fleet First Rank Galen Diettinger, Second Rank Althene Adame,” Mara Emory introduced her companion, “Allow me to present Captain Ian Hawksley, commander of the Burgess privateer Falkenberg”
Hawksley bowed to Diettinger, clicking his heels softly. “Fleet First Rank Diettinger; your reputation precedes you, sir. It is an honor to serve under your command.” Hawksley’s voice was a smooth baritone, low, softened even more so by an indistinguishable accent which softened consonants and graciously lengthened vowels. He turned to Althene, bowed again, and lifting her hand, raised his eyes to hers and actually kissed the space a fraction of an inch above the back of it. “Second Rank Adame; First Rank Emory was kind enough to share with me your thesis on the Peloponnesian War. A brilliant piece of work, if I may say so. Thucydides should look to his laurels.”
Althene shot Diettinger a look.”Thank you very much indeed, Captain Hawksley. It does seem to be enjoying something of a vogue, of late.”
Emory introduced Hawksley to the two New Ireland captains, both of whom, upon learning that the English-derivative sound of his name was only coincidental, accepted him without further reservation.
Diettinger was surprised. From anyone else, and especially in these circumstances, the outworlder’s performance would have been ludicrous, the most pathetic sort of comic opera. Yet Hawksley was making even the excruciatingly correct Saurons look like bumpkins. Then it hit him, and the words were out before he knew it, “You were trained at the Imperial Court.”
Hawksley nodded, the ghost of a smile moving across his features. “I was, sir, as a child. The Court and I did not agree. We had something of a falling out.”
“Would you care to elaborate on just what sort of a falling out that might be?” Shannon asked with a gleam in his eye.”Make this already delightful evening perfect and tell me that you killed one of the Emperors nephews in a duel.”
The smile flashed again, fainter than ever, as Hawksley looked down and said, ”First Corinthians, 13:11.”
“Beg pardon?” Emory asked.
“The Christian Bible,” Althene explained.’“When I was a child, I spake as a child.. .when I became a man, I put away childish things’.”
Connolly and Shannon both nodded sagely. Connolly raised his drink. “And good for you, too, Captain; here’s to the rest of known space followin’ suit.”
“Captain Hawksley,” Diettinger said after the toast, “Please contact my staff to arrange an appointment to meet with me sometime within the next two days. There are some points I wish to discuss with you regarding the disposition of the Falkenberg”
Hawksley inclined his head, making the casual nod look like a formal bow, “Your servant, sir.”
The orchestra began a waltz, and sharing a smile with Althene, Emory led her guest away to join in.
“Whouf.” Shannon shook his head and tossed down the remainder of his drink, deftly snatching another from the tray of a passing steward.
“Aye,” Connolly agreed. “The temperature just went up fifteen degrees.” Since settling their world, New Irelanders had rejected and steadfastly refused to re-adopt metric measurements.
Shannon nodded and said, in a conspiratorial tone: “We’ve neither need nor inclination to tell you your work, Your Grace. But don’t put that man on your flank. Fine fella and all that, but fey as they come, and that’s the truth.”
“Aye,” Connolly said, ”‘Tis a damn shame, too.”
Diettinger frowned, puzzled. Connolly explained, “Fey, Your Grace, is what we Irish call a man who’s made up his mind to die. Doomed to death. When that happens, nothing and nobody can stop him. Captain Hawksley seems a grand lad, but he’s only with us on loan, and that’s a fact.”
Althene was chilled. Fey. That was the word she’d been trying to recall earlier, but she couldn’t remember why. It had to do with someone she knew, but who?
Diettinger was talking.
“I’m sorry, First Rank; what was that again?”
“I was saying that Captain Hawksley reminds me of Vessel First Rank Lucan of the Wallenstein”
Althene nodded, pretending a shudder.”Ah, yes. ’The Phantom’.”
It was Connolly’s and Shannon’s turn to be puzzled.
“Vessel First Rank Lucan, ‘The Phantom’, as we like to call him, commands the Sauron battleship Wallenstein” Diettinger explained.
Connolly frowned, then brightened.”Ah, right; Wallenstein! Bright light of the Thirty Years War.” He shrugged to Shannon. “Well, for our side, at least. Go on.”
“Under ‘The Phantom’s’ command,” Althene embellished, “the Wallenstein has participated in over two dozen major engagements. She’s been directly or solely responsible for the destruction of seven enemy capital ships, and her actions against merchant shipping would be unbelievable if fiction.
“Now,’ The Phantom’ hasn’t always won every engagement he’s taken the Wallenstein into; that distinction goes to our esteemed Fleet First Rank, of the Fomoria” Althene nodded to Diettinger with a smile, ”But Lucan can claim an accomplishment unique among all Sauron commanders, land or space. In all her actions, in all of space, Wallenstein has never lost a crewman.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Shannon said, “Beggin’ you’re pardon, ma’am, but surely you’re joking?”
“It’s true,” Diettinger confirmed. “In fact, Vessel First Rank Lucan’s name has been brought up a great deal lately.” He looked at Althene, who was inspecting her drink.
In secret High Command Council sessions, that is; was Althene their operative? Perhaps reporting his activities to them? Composing himself, Diettinger turned back to the New Ireland captains. “Lucan’s always brought his crew home. His casualty record is perfect, yet I’ve never seen a more grim-looking man, not even Captain Hawksley.”
Shannon shook his head.”Lucan, eh? God forbid I’m about the day that man’s luck runs out.”
“Then you need have no fear as long as you serve under Fleet First Rank Diettinger, Captain Shannon,” Althene assured him. “Saurons don’t believe in luck. Only probabilities.”
Connolly shrugged, and went on talking to Diettinger. ”‘Tisn’t merely the look of a man, Your Grace. ‘Tis the bearing. Something in.. .something in the eyes.” Connolly’s voice faded out, and he suddenly found himself looking away from Diettinger. “Ah. Yes, well. Woolgathering. Forgive me.”
Diettinger caught the man’s tone, and smiled. “Oh, come now, Captain Connolly. You don’t seriously expect me to - ”
There was a murmur at the far side of the floor, gathering strength as word spread and more and more of the guests looked upward, craning their necks to see. The starfield projected on the inside of the dome of Orbital Station Four was a perfect reproduction of the view outside, from the same perspective. Diettinger realized that the people were looking at a ship which had appeared at a Jump Point.
Instantly, he keyed the communications link in the occipital lobe of his skull, connecting him to the Commo officer aboard the Fomoria.
“Fomoria here.”
Boyle again, Diettinger recognized the voice. Doesn’t that young ma
n ever get off duty? “Diettinger here, Fifth Rank Boyle. Identify the ship which just arrived in-system.”
“Have been and still trying, First Rank. No transponder codes from target vessel.”
“What about Traffic Control?”
“Traffic Control is in communications blackout, First Rank.”
“What?”
“Confirmed, First Rank. Blackout initiated twenty-three seconds after an unidentified vessel emerged from Jump Point.”
“Long range visuals from Fomoria?”
“Inconclusive, First Rank. Sensor and Navigation both having difficulty determining vessel’s true size. Vessel’s albedo is very high and appears to be fluctuating.”
“Is that a function of its Field?”
“Negative, First Rank; vessel does not appear to be running with Field activated.”
“Get a crew with lens optics into one of the hangar bays. Make direct visual observations and - ”
Someone dropped a glass; the sound of its shatter was a gunshot. Now the dance floor had gone from a symphony of hushed and wondering whispers to stony silence.
“Fomoria, stand by,” Diettinger said. He went to the environmental controls and began accessing the various menu commands for the overhead display.
A bright green square appeared on the star field above them; Diettinger pressed a few buttons, and the square glided across the field to surround the glint in space that was the intruder. He activated the image enlargement controls, and the sliver of light grew large enough so that its flickering could be clearly seen; the fluctuating albedo Boyle had mentioned.
The mutterings of the crowd were taking on a tone of impatience; everyone wanted to know what was going on. Just what was that ship out there? Another Imperial raid?
Diettinger continued enhancing the image until the borders of the green square suddenly flared out past the edges of the display over their heads and the ship filled the sky.
“Oh, God!” cried one of the Secessionist captains.
One of the Alliance staff officers threw-up. A Sauron stepped quickly to a chair and fell into it.