by Blaze Ward
With the 1-ring Cargoship Marco Polo accompanying them, it verged on naval decadence.
Her thoughts must have been visible on her face. Or Desianna was thinking the same thing. Or maybe reading her mind. She did that, occasionally.
“We imported the best barbarian finery from Fribourg for the occasion,” Desianna said with a smirk, gesturing around them as the inner airlock opened with a hiss. Unlike the pilots of the fighters and other shuttles, Jessica could walk straight across airlocks to Kali-ma in a dedicated hallway.
“I see that,” Jessica replied as they went down a stairway into the main, spinal corridor.
Jessica followed Wiley as the Command Centurion turned right and passed through another bulkhead/airlock, entering into the bow portion of the flagship, Desianna and the others in tow. Unlike either of the Auberons Jessica had commanded, Kali-ma was tiny, like all 4-ring Motherships.
The bow of the vessel was an arrowhead shape with four blades, fins almost, equidistant around the centerline like points of a compass. The stern contained the engine cluster and Jumpdrive assembly.
Normally, a vessel like this was made up of parts ripped from a variety of other ships and welded together as if in someone’s backyard orbital platform instead of a professional facility. The previous Kali-ma, Ian Zhao’s chariot, the professional raider and veteran of the Battle of Petron, had been.
This one, her new Kali-ma, had been professionally designed and purpose-built. Jessica had dedicated a lot of thought, and a good budget, towards building a warship. She had engaged a yard in Aquitaine to do the work, not because Corynthe’s shipwrights couldn’t handle the task, but because they could travel to Aquitaine and see something built to Republic of Aquitaine naval specifications, and bring that knowledge home.
It has been an extremely expensive undertaking.
Looking around as she walked towards the bow, it had been worth every Lev she had spent.
The centerline of the ship, where they had docked, was a narrow cylinder, like a goose’s neck connecting the two ends, but much, much longer. Around the neck, like mosquitos squatting on skin ready to bite, were rings of fighters and miniature gunships, no two designs repeated.
Like the other Motherships in the fleet, the flight wing had been thrown together in someone’s backyard, if that backyard had at least three of every kind of starfighter ever flown, chopped into pieces and stacked randomly, waiting to be welded into some new configuration by a demented beaver with a laser torch. Someplace like Bunala.
But this was the flagship of the Corynthe fleet. Those craft were piloted by some of the best in the nation. Probably at least as good as the top third in Aquitaine’s Navy.
Wiley turned and entered a noisy chamber on the port side of the main hall, rapping her knuckles hard against a steel bulkhead loudly as she did.
“Quiet,” she ordered in a voice used to being obeyed. “All rise.”
Jessica entered first. Desianna, Marcelle, and Willow could peek in from the hallway, and would probably enter in a bit, but Jessica wanted this moment to herself.
Wiley stood at the bottom of a small auditorium. On the blueprints, this was the pilot’s briefing room. In front of her, all of Kali-ma’s pilots came to stillness, save for the rustling as they came to their feet.
Jessica had been expecting all of the fliers to be men, as had been the case every other time she had come home.
She was almost right.
Most were, ranging in size and complexion and color across the entire spectrum of humanity.
But it was the two girls standing in the front row that caught her eye.
At least close sisters, if not identical twins. They had that same golden skin; the straight, black hair; the emerald-colored, almond-shaped eyes that were so common in this sector of space, originally colonized by descendants of the ancient colony Nihon. They could have been Petia Naoumov’s daughters, if they had been taller.
But they were tiny. No taller than Moirrey Kermode, but built like Nina Vanek. Almost ethereal. Maybe forty-five kilos soaking wet.
And young. To Jessica’s eye, they both looked fourteen at most. Not even ready to go to Fleet Academy. Maybe the Boarding School for a few years, like she had.
But they were here, in the room, obviously members of the First Fighter Squadron, Corynthe.
The Queen’s Own.
Jessica nodded and stepped to the center of the room, resting her hands on the lectern and making eye contact with every man and woman in front of her as Wiley stepped to one side.
“Some of you I have not flown with before,” Jessica said by way of opening. “But you wouldn’t be here if David and Wiley didn’t think you were the best.”
She paused to smile at all of them.
“When we get to St. Legier,” she continued. “I expect to show you off. The Emperor will have dress units, peacocks in pretty livery. I plan to challenge them to some real flying, like we did before at Callumnia, and I want you to take them for every Florin, every Lev, that you can. We’ll nail the first one you win to the bulkhead on the bridge, and leave it there for as long as Kali-ma flies.”
Jessica was rewarded by a growling whoop. These men and women were pirates in their hearts, not sailors. They wanted to be challenged, not commanded. Led, not ordered. They would have stayed on their own Motherships, to be big fish in small ponds, otherwise.
To fly with the Queen’s Own was to skirt the edge of catastrophe with the elite. Who knew when the next batch of trouble would drop out of JumpSpace and require the awesomest?
“It will be a hard sail to get there,” Jessica continued. “We’ll be in Jumpspace for most of the time, except when we need to rendezvous with Marco Polo and take on supplies. I expect each of you to spend a great deal of time in the simulators I bought, so that we’re ready to show the Imperials up. Can you do that?”
This time it sounded like an angry growl, deep and hungry.
She had them, now.
The Queen’s Own.
CHAPTER IX
DATE OF THE REPUBLIC JULY 14, 398 KALI-MA. WAYPOINT 098S3Y-2D9JF4
“I’ve watched the two of you in the flight simulators,” Jessica began carefully. “First off, I wasn’t even sure they could be programmed that way. But then I remembered where I was. What I don’t understand is why.”
Today’s meeting was aboard Baxter, in the front sitting room Jessica had taken to calling the Salon. Jessica had brought Nicolai Aoiki with her on this jaunt, rather than letting Denis and David have him to themselves. Marcelle was acting as steward, serving everyone, which today involved communal dishes of rice, vegetables, and meat, in a variety of sauces. Willow stood her shift at the front door, professionally paranoid.
They had set out a conference-style table today, dark, polished wood Jessica couldn’t identify, except that it went with the wood paneling and book cases on the walls.
Jessica had been afraid the room would come across as too masculine, but then she remembered that Desianna had been in charge. The space instead looked more like a rich Fleet Lord’s library. There were throw rugs tacked down. Two comfortable sofas perpendicular to each other. Several soft chairs.
Home.
Around the table, Jessica smiled at the group. Vo Arlo had kept mostly to himself, and spent as much time as he could training down and aft in Kali-ma’s gym, so he wasn’t here. Once Chef Aoiki had retreated to his kitchen, the rest of room was entirely female. Marcelle and Willow. Desianna and Wiley. Moirrey. And the two newcomers Jessica has specifically invited: Rocket Frog and Neon Pink.
Identical sisters, after all. Seventeen years old, instead of fourteen, and already top-rated pilots, but Jessica could understand why now, having watched their training sims.
Their grandfather was Uly Larionov, a man who had overcome everything the galaxy could throw at him, to advance in a culture that favored giant men, when he himself had less than half a head on Jessica. One of Larionov’s sons-in-law, one of the twins’ uncles, commanded
the Cargoship Marco Polo on this epic voyage.
And the girls had themselves fostered with a man who was a legend in Corynthe: Iorwerth Nakamura, father of Flight Centurion Cho Ayaka Nakamura, back on Auberon.
Furious. At one time, for however briefly, commander of The Queen’s Own. Cho’s father was the one who had helped his only daughter build her own strike fighter when she was twelve, while all her friends were busy discovering boys.
Looking across the table, and through the steam rising from fresh dishes, Jessica could see these two growing up to be just as dangerous, in and out of the cockpit.
“It’s really rather simple, Your Majesty,” Rocket Frog replied.
Jessica thought it was Rocket Frog. She still hadn’t picked up all the subtle cues to tell the two girls apart, especially not when they had a tendency to complete each other’s sentences. The color this one had painted her nails probably gave her away, alternating between bright yellow and lime green.
Hopefully, Neon Pink also lived her color scheme in her nails.
“The edges and fluctuations of a gravity well are a mass-mass interaction across the curve of dimpled space-time,” Rocket Frog continued. “Our two fighters are stripped down of every bit of extraneous mass possible, and then maintained as close to ideal anchor mass as possible at all times. We’ve programmed a great deal of math ahead of time to handle the deflection.”
“But a JumpSail won’t even work once you cross that line,” Jessica countered.
“Correct,” Neon Pink joined the conversation without missing a beat. “We’re using straight up, old-fashioned jumpdrives, scratch-built to spec under Pops Nakamura’s micrometer. Ancient tech. The metallurgy was really the hardest part.”
“Once we programmed the nav computer on Kali-ma, it was easy,” Rocket Frog continued. “Input your local gravity coefficients, depth of atmosphere readings, solar wind temperature, and orbital bodies with relevant mass signatures. Then you let the jumpdrive zero your scatter down as tight as you can. We’ve got enough onboard battery power to jump twice, neither of them as much as a light hour, but more than enough for our needs.”
“Purpose?” Jessica asked, letting her tactical brain engage and hand off ideas to the strategist in her backbrain.
“Two ways to interpret it,” Neon Pink said with an evil grin. “We’re the Law and we’ve come to arrest you. Or we’re pirates, and your ass is ours.”
“Either way, we work the same,” Rocket Frog continued her thought. “We’ve got one little Type-1 beam centerline. Just enough to keep people honest. And a pair of Type-3 Archerfish rigs on the mounts outside the twin engines. We can hop right up on you and put two or four one-shot, Type-3 beams into your ass from point blank, usually with surprise, and then blink back out. This Kali-ma might take it. Auberon, sure. Anything we’re likely to run into in Corynthe or Salonnia is going to be hurting.”
Jessica turned to Wiley.
“I’ll pretend we’re the Law,” she said, letting her smile encompass all of the women at the table. “Any other surprises in the flight wing?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Wiley purred back with an equal smile and wicked eyebrows.
Jessica paused and turned to the rest.
“Eel,” Neon Pink replied.
“Eel?” Jessica asked.
There had been someone named Eel at the battle known as First Petron four years ago. Apparently, he had survived, but kept a low profile in the period since. Or someone else had taken up his name. And he was apparently flying on Kali-ma now.
“Right,” Rocket Frog chimed in. “Gustav had us build him a new sled.”
“Did ya nows?” Moirrey suddenly put down her tea and spoke up. “’Bouts time som’tin were done about that crazy boy. What’s he gots today?”
“Cold-built from the frames out from stuff in Pops’ yard,” Neon Pink smiled, turning to extend the conversation across the whole group. “Engines are tuned and balanced finally, instead of doing it with those stupid, manual twin throttles. Stuffed a generator in back and took out the back seat where his girlfriend used to ride.”
“Got enough power now that he can shoot and fly without the engine shutdown,” Rocket Frog completed the thought.
“Ooh,” Moirrey grinned. “Walk AND chew bubblegum at the same time?”
“Dunno about that,” Wiley suddenly said. “This is Eel we’re talking about.”
Jessica joined the rest in laughing. She was looking forward to what this group of pilots, half of them new to Kali-ma in the last year, could do.
Hopefully, nothing more adventurous than another Promenade.
She already had enough enemies in the Fribourg Empire.
CHAPTER X
IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 176/08/03. IMPERIAL PALACE, WERDER, ST. LEGIER
A rustle behind her was the only indication that someone was there, so Casey knew it had to be family coming.
Anyone else would have been challenged by Sgt. Inmon, or at least acknowledged and greeted as a way of getting Casey’s attention, even in the middle of the garden of the Imperial Palace.
He was utterly dedicated to those duties.
Not many people could signal the man to remain quiet as they approached. But he was excellent at maintaining perfect silence, all by himself. That was useful when Casey was doing her art.
“I’m probably supposed to be surprised to find you mostly alone,” Casey’s mother said quietly as she got close. “What happened to Lady Yulia this time?”
Casey, the Princess Imperial Kasimira Helena Wiegand, glanced back over her shoulder and went back to her painting with a shrug. She pushed a stray lock of her long, blond hair back over her ear, not willing to reclamp everything just for a few loose hairs. She’d probably end up getting paint all over everything if she tried that right now.
She was deep in the back of the Imperial Gardens this morning, near the five-meter-tall brick wall that separated it from the ancient game park outside. Another artist would probably be working in watercolors with this bright morning light, perhaps dashing off three or four canvases in a single sitting to capture the fluidity and frailty she could see around her.
Casey had chosen to work with oils instead today.
It was a richer painting. Heavier. But it also let her better communicate the fundamental emotional signature of this corner of the garden. The air was heavy and redolent with life and scent and color this morning, especially here, where a tangle of angry roses strove to conquer the brick wall and bend the obdurate stone to its will. Or climb over it and escape into the dark woods, leaving Imperial life behind forever.
“Possibly ennui overcame her,” Casey said lightly after a bit. “Or entropy. It can be hard to tell. I would be willing to wager a quiet corner, a comfortable chair, and a binge of her favorite soap operas with headphones on.”
Mother, the Empress Kati, circled close on Casey’s left side, the painting side, to observe.
“You’ve gotten better,” she said. “More subtle in your depth of shadows and expression of negative space. And yes, Yulia is not one for extended silences, is she? But nobody in the family save you has a mind to do art for art’s sake.”
Casey shrugged again, unwilling to pick at that emotional scab this morning. She didn’t want another row with Mother. Not today. It would be nice to go an entire week without raised voices. Unlikely, but nice.
The second daughter of a Duke or important Burggraf might be allowed to become a Bohemian artist. Doubly so with an eldest son in line to inherit everything. But never a Princess Imperial.
Even with a father as loving as hers.
Still, he let her paint, and write, and compose popular music and symphonies, whereas Ekke, the Crown Prince, studied being a proper Emperor. And sister Steffi, the Imperial Princess Ekaterina Stephanya, studied more practical things. Law. Diplomacy. Politics. But Steffi was a practical girl. Boring, almost.
They would find Steffi a fiancé soon. One who was well-bred and well-connected and whom they could
use to bind the man’s family more firmly to the throne. That was how politics worked.
Steffi would bear the man many happy children and be content in a life of public appearances and charitable work.
Casey hadn’t had that conversation with Father yet, but she could see it coming in another few years. Imperial Ladies were expected to wed at around twenty-four standard years of age, following an engagement of at least two years beforehand.
At seventeen, Casey had five years, at most, before they went out and found her a husband.
Imperial nobles in good repute were rarely artists. That they were Patrons of the Arts went without saying, but few had ever actually committed art themselves.
Outwardly, Casey remained still. So much to do, and so little time to cram it all into, until she was fitted with that adamantine corset called Respectability.
Mother here this morning was unlikely to be a positive sign.
“You have an appointment after lunch,” Mother confirmed obliquely.
The Empress was one of the few people who understood how to use pauses and non-verbal communication effectively. It kept their blow-ups to a minimum. Unlike between Mother and Steffi. Or Casey and her sister.
Casey turned her head to look fully at her mother for the first time.
She saw herself in thirty years. Tall and willowy, with shoulder-length blond hair slowly turning to silver in random stripes the Empress chose not to color. Green eyes from the Alkaev side of the family, rather than the tanzanite blue Casey had inherited from father’s genes.
Casey would never be as skinny, inheriting the heavier bones and broader shoulders of the Wiegand clan, but the coloration would run much the same. Hopefully, she would keep as much of the slender beauty as possible.
And the calm temperament.
“Oh?” Casey replied simply.
Sgt. Inmon hadn’t reminded her of anything, and he took those duties earnestly, having forgetful daughters Casey’s age back home. Therefore, something new.