by Blaze Ward
“A fitting for the dress you will wear to your cousin’s wedding,” Mother said with a chill smile that brooked no argument from her headstrong daughter. “I’ve found a new designer I think you will like, and doing it this early gives the two of you time to come to a consensus. She was able to clear an entire afternoon today for the two of you to argue. Or conspire.”
Truly, Mother was the only one who understood the artist in the family. And today, she was apparently willing to meet her stubborn, youngest child at least midway.
She and Casey shared a secret smile.
A thought about cousin Heike, and her upcoming wedding, struck Casey’s mind.
“What’s Jessica Keller really like?” she asked suddenly.
Casey’s reward was a raised eyebrow, but that was better than an eye roll. Not that she had ever done something like that to her own Mother. In at least several days.
“She’ll be there,” Casey continued, trying to frame her words, her focus, and failing. “And she’ll be fierce, and exotic, and dangerous, but I’m afraid she’ll turn out to be utterly boring. Just another man in uniform, when you look close enough. I want to know if there is something more.”
Mother considered possible replies for several moments.
“You should ask your uncle,” she said finally. “He’s probably the best judge. Everyone else will just be spiteful and jealous.”
Casey nodded sagely. She didn’t have any uncles.
Her father had been an only child, born and raised a crown prince. All the other nobles around were cousins of some sort, however far removed, including the currently-absent Lady Yulia, herself a distaff relative from a poor branch of the family that everyone liked. Casey and her siblings had always treated Emmerich Wachturm as an uncle.
“One o’clock, in the Peacock Room,” Mother said, turning and drifting away as though pushed on some breeze nobody else felt.
Mother was trying. Casey could tell.
She could make an effort as well. Jessica Keller herself would be here. This might be Casey’s only chance to meet the woman who had ever defeated the odds and overcome the men in this palace.
CHAPTER XI
DATE OF THE REPUBLIC SEPTEMBER 1, 398 KALI-MA. WAYPOINT D652G0-52S235
“All hands, stand by for emergence,” Jessica heard the woman calmly announce. “Flight Wing, prepare for spiral launch.”
Today, Wiley was seated in her command chair, Command Centurion Shiori Ness at work, surrounded by several screens, with most of the bridge crew in front of her, each facing inward towards the primary hologram projector in the center. The layout was different from what Jessica was used to, but much closer to the historical pattern in Corynthe.
From her observer’s station, back in the aft port corner of Kali-ma’s oval-shaped bridge, Jessica watched Wiley work with a critical eye. It was unnecessary to grade the woman. She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t a stone-cold professional.
At the same time, every Command Centurion had her idiosyncrasies. Jessica needed to learn Wiley’s, especially with such a radically different vessel as a 4-ring Mothership. Doubly-so, with a brand new class-vessel, hopefully the first of a new design Jessica could have built, both in Aquitaine yards and back home on Corynthe.
Kali-ma was more heavily armed than the rest of the Motherships in the fleet. Each of the four blades on the arrowhead bow had a Type-3 beam emplacement at the tip, with a tremendous arc of available fire. In addition, there was another one on the stern, below the engine cluster. Before Jessica, a 4-ring Mothership might have had at most two such beams, instead relying mostly on a random collection of randomly-placed Type-2 and Type-1 beams for defense, and using the flight wing as her only offense.
Corynthe was going to have a proper navy, staffed by professionals. Most likely trained or mentored by Wiley and her crew. Jessica smiled to herself.
Wiley glanced over at that moment. Her brief smile at Jessica lit the entire bridge all by itself. The only other person Jessica could think of that smiled like that was in the aft starboard observer seat right now. But Moirrey smiled all the time.
Emergence.
Some people claimed they could not feel the difference as the JumpSails cut and dropped a ship back into real space. For Jessica, it was like falling slowly out a pool of warm water. One moment, wet, the next dry.
“Patrol Wing, fast launch now,” another voice called sternly.
Yan Bedrov had been Ian Zhao’s second in command, back on that fateful day. He was still tall and skinny. His short, dark hair was slowly receding from his forehead and coming in white, making him look older than forty-three standard years.
After First Petron, he had stayed with Kali-ma, and Jessica, when much of the old crew had retired, or moved on. And he had learned something useful about how to be a good Tactical Officer along the way, instead of just another of Zhao’s henchmen. Both Wiley and David vouched for the man’s competence and loyalty.
On one of the old-style Motherships, even the big 4-rings, the Captain was expected to command and fight the vessel and the fighters. That was easy when the Mothership had minimal shields, and barely enough guns to defend itself. They wouldn’t go willingly into battle.
Kali-ma was a purpose-built warship.
McCandless and Daughters had built her to the same exacting standards the Republic of Aquitaine Navy demanded. Yan Bedrov had supervised that construction for David, and been through a six-month Reserve Commission training course while he was there on Ladaux.
Wiley was expected to command the battle and direct the flight wing once it launched. She was excellent at her task. The job of her Tactical Officer, Yan, was to fight the vessel itself. That was something new for Corynthe, but it worked.
Yan and Wiley were evolving into a lethal team.
Kali-ma’s entire hull rang like a church bell as the twelve fighters of the Patrol Wing separated from the middle of the gooseneck almost in unison, tilted their bows outward, and lit their engines.
“Strike Wings, fast launch next,” Yan commanded.
At the front of the gooseneck, Rocket Frog and Neon Pink broke free, along with Eel and the three heavy fighters of his element farther back. Kali-ma sounded like hail on a tin roof.
“Command Wing, launch and form up,” Yan concluded.
There were already eighteen fighters in motion. Baxter went next, along with Zorrillo: the Royal Combat Yacht, and Polecat: a scratch-built, fast bomber that served the squadron in much the same manner as Jessica’s own GunsShips on Auberon: Necromancer and Sunset.
For the old Auberon to launch nine fighters, one GunShip and one DropShip, roughly four minutes on a good day.
Kali-ma had just put twenty-one armed hornets into action in sixty seconds.
It was fun watching professionals work.
“Comm, I have designated Target One,” Wiley said in a firm voice. “Flight Wing, begin your attack run. Tactical, Kali-ma will trail.”
Yan nodded, head down over his console as he studied the paths.
“Nav, down bow plane fifteen degrees,” he ordered sharply. “Come to three-five-zero, roll ten, accelerate to combat speed.”
Crisp acknowledgements came from all sides. Jessica could still remember the man’s bewilderment at First Petron, when she had taken this ship’s predecessor into the combat.
Jessica watched nineteen of the craft form up into a loose spear shape and begin to track on the asteroid. Neon Pink and Rocket Frog both began accelerating madly, but in their own direction, mostly away from Kali-ma, but close together.
“Light Strike Team, engage now,” Wiley said over the comm. “Squadron, come to max speed and prepare for your pass.”
The two smallest fighters blinked out of space for a moment. Jessica knew where they would appear a moment later at this distance, but the scanners and computers would require several seconds to understand what had just happened and respond appropriately. Even Kali-ma, locked on and prepared, was slow to identify the two new arrival
s.
The poor rock never saw it coming as they popped out, Rocket Frog and Neon Pink almost simultaneously. Four quick shots into the small moon blasted clouds of molten dust and lava into space as the two girls shot by at full speed.
A few second later, Eel opened up with his heavy lance, another Type-3, this weapon centerlined between two engines and a generator capable of recharging it. The other three of his wing let loose with a massed barrage of Type-2 beams in clusters, less effective individually at this range, but still a whole bunch of them shooting.
More rock vaporized as the rest of the squadron got close enough to pour their own fire into the stone before flaring up and starboard.
“Tactical, the Flight Wing is clear,” Yan observed with a savage glee in his voice at odds with the calm smile on his face.
Wiley turned her head the other way, looking over her right shoulder this time to study Moirrey for a second.
“You’re sure?” she asked the engineer in a voice that wasn’t.
“You dun the maths, Wiley,” Moirrey chirped back with a smile.
“That, I did,” Wiley agreed with a deep, alto voice.
“Tactical,” she said. “Prepare to engage.”
Jessica watched the man press a button on his console that brought a smaller, personal holographic projector live in front of him. Another innovation. Or rather, a toy more expensive than Corynthe used to be able to afford.
Back when parties and Events were more important than taxes.
The projection contained a green sphere with Kali-ma at the center, and a score of smaller lights indicating her fighter craft. Yan pressed a button and a pink sphere appeared outside that, nearly a third of a radius larger. The outer edge of the pink was fast approaching a large asteroid quietly minding its business in a growing cloud of debris.
“Gunnery,” Yan said firmly after a few minutes. “Begin salvoing your Type-3 beams now. According to Moirrey, we should be in range.”
Like on Auberon and her squadron, every beam emplacement was tuned to a different note on a piano, letting everyone track the firing audibly. Four notes struck a single chord now.
“Three hits, Commander,” Yan called from his station. “Recharging and preparing for individual engagement.”
“Very good shooting,” Wiley said, relaxing back into her chair.
Jessica was still shocked, even though she had been expecting it. After all, she had been the one to approve Moirrey’s tinkering with the ship’s main cannons. Those shots had been at the sort of range where ships began firing the Primaries at each other.
Back home, that was how battles were fought. You could pack more punch into a Primary than a Type-3, and they had a far greater engagement range. But they were slow to fire, and were ammunition that had to be reloaded, instead of just recharged. That made them extremely expensive, especially for the poorer nations out on the galactic perimeter. Not worth the effort or the expense.
Wiley might have been reading her mind. She turned and locked eyes with Jessica with a dead-serious look.
“This is going to up-end naval combat on the periphery,” Shiori Ness said with a hard burr to her consonants. “Why has nobody done it before now?”
“Oooh, I gots an answer,” Moirrey giggled. “Them folks is so rich they never’d had to does better. Rip loose with the big booms and calls it good enoughs.”
“Yes, that’s partly true,” Jessica countered. “But you also have to consider the cost. You absolutely gain significant range effectiveness, but at what price?”
The Command Centurion nodded from her throne.
“Damage is down around thirty percent at normal engagement ranges, according to the mathematics,” she said. “We’ll know for sure after blasting this rock some more.”
“Oy,” Moirrey agreed, excitement blurring her words. “It’ll no work fer fleets, unless everyone does it at once. Ya gots ta be predictables, even when yer nots. But is still daft fun, boss.”
Both Jessica and Shiori smiled.
It just might up-end naval warfare again. But then, what else was a woman to do, fighting in a man’s world?
CHAPTER XII
IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 176/08/09. IMPERIAL PALACE, WERDER, ST. LEGIER
On the one hand, Casey was technically too young to be drinking wine with her lunch. On the other hand, she was with family, and adults, and had cut the glass of merlot with vanilla, honey water, and cream, turning it into something approximating a purple smoothie.
And Heike and Uncle Emmerich weren’t going to complain to her mother.
Imperial Valets had taken away the plates. Coffee would be delivered soon, but she could still enjoy her wine on a shadowed, second-story patio overlooking a duck pond in the early afternoon sun. It would be hot soon, but she had another hour before she needed to retreat indoors.
At least here, in the privacy of the Family wing, she could wear comfortable clothes: Capri pants and a cross-over tunic in soft, gray linen. Heike worn a sundress in cornflower blue. Uncle Em wore his usual uniform, the Red Admiral as Crimson Imperial Hawk.
Uncle Em leaned back and held his own crystal goblet of burgundy negligently.
“So what are you really up to, Casey?” he drawled. “Lunch was splendid. The view relaxing. But you’ve been dancing around something for the last hour.”
Even his voice sounded like Father. It was fortunate this man had gone fully gray, or she might feel like confessing all her sins now and be done with it. Having shaved off the beard he had worn the last few years had made Em almost an Imperial doppelgänger again.
Heike leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table and letting her blue eyes twinkle. Had they been as close in age as Father and Uncle Em, she and Casey might be mistaken for twins. Certainly sisters, rather than close cousins. Casey’s hair was a hand span longer. Heike had perhaps a handful of kilos as she started to develop a woman’s curves to Casey’s lean athleticism.
They even thought alike, youngest daughters of important men, smart and blond and creative. Casey was glad she had someone like Heike around her growing up, and not just her ultra-boring sister Steffi.
Casey took a sip to order her thoughts. It hadn’t helped so far, but Uncle Em deserved an honest answer.
“Jessica Keller,” she finally blurted out.
Uncle Em’s eyes got a distant glint to them, lost inside some memory for a moment. He smiled warmly at his youngest daughter, and then her.
“Ah. She reminds me of two young ladies I know,” he said obliquely. “Very smart, and with a dedicated, artistic bent. At one point, I wanted Heike to grow up to be like her, and then I hated her and tried to kill the woman. Now, she is probably the most dangerous threat to the Empire.”
“Besides Buran?” Casey asked.
She had been in Fleet Intelligence briefings. It was a necessity for the Imperial family to know what was really going on, regardless of what the press might spin.
“No,” Uncle Em replied coldly.
His Wiegand-blue eyes had grown serious and dark. His manner suggested something of a bear roused mid-winter. Casey watched the man turn from a favorite uncle into a terrible warrior in a single breath. This was the Red Admiral, seated before her, suddenly.
“No,” he continued. “Buran is strange and exotic. They only fight if provoked, and then it is to the death, and they rarely want to trade. We do not understand them, but we have been able to sustain the M’hanii Frontier while fighting Aquitaine. Without Nils Kasum and Jessica Keller at our backs, we can push Buran back. We will start the crusade early next year.”
“So the Peace really is just a means to get Jessica Keller off the game board?” Casey asked.
She could feel herself turning into her mother, that serious tone, incisive questions, nose aquiver for threats.
Not the worst role model, all things considered.
“Not just, Princess,” Em countered, coming back from the dark place and fixing his softening glare on her, and then Heike. “But yes,
my life, my planning becomes much easier without that woman going for my kidneys with a blade.”
“So what is the person like, Father?” Heike spoke up for the first time. “We know the terrible legend, and the distorted tales spun across the galaxy.”
Uncle Em smiled at that and licked his lips with a chuckle.
“Most of those lies and legends are my fault,” he grinned.
“How so?” Heike asked.
“She would be a terribly dangerous role model for Imperial women,” Uncle Em said. “Especially smart, impressionable ones. A blue-collar girl, identified by a series of exams that all students take when they are twelve. Sent away to a boarding school for young warriors they want to mold. Mentored by the man who would later go on to command the First Fleet, and then the entire Aquitaine Navy, Nils Kasum. The youngest of this and that and the other along the way.”
“Our spies learned all this?” Heike asked. She had been a student before she was expected to turn into a Lady, and both Imperial Princesses had been in her charge when they were much younger.
“She told me most of it herself,” Em replied serenely. “Primarily at Bunala, but at a few other places. None of it is secret. The secret is how smart, how capable she really is. How dangerous.”
“Oh?” Casey asked, willing to let the man talk as much as he wanted, now that she had him on the topic she really desired.
“Ian Zhao was one of the most dangerous fighting men in Corynthe, Casey,” Uncle Em’s eyes bored in to hers. “One point nine meters tall, strong, fast. Physically at his peak. Smart as well. Canny. Capable. Understand that he had won several duels to the death with blades before he fought Keller. The man never stood a chance.”
“None?” Casey followed up.
“None,” Em exhaled definitively. “According to our spies, she is always planning, always war-gaming scenarios, political as well as military. Put that mind into a well-trained body, honed by the requirements of fighting with the blade, and you have a most dangerous opponent, child.”