Flight of the Blackbird (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 5)

by Blaze Ward

  Someone was absolutely going to die for this.

  And then she appeared. The missing Princess, Kasimira, looking stern and self-important for all of seventeen years of uselessness in a palace.

  At least her sister, Stephanya, would have known how to act Imperial right now. This child was obviously on the verge of tears.

  So, little girl. You wish to challenge me?

  “Imperial citizens,” Kasimira began slowly, attempting to sound so much more grown-up than she knew how. “It has dawned a terrible day in the history of the Fribourg Empire. A usurper has attacked the throne and imprisoned the Emperor, my father. As the traitor has also captured my brother and my sister, the Imperial duties must, of needs, fall on my shoulders, by law and custom, making me your Emperor in duty, at least until my father can be freed from his captivity.”

  The girl paused to take a breath.

  It was obvious she was reading from a script, but who had written this speech for her? All the major players were either in custody, or on Sigmund’s side, at least passively.

  None would dare challenge him. The Fleet would not follow a child into battle. Only a proven warrior could command their allegiance, especially today.

  “Where is that signal originating?” Sigmund demanded.

  “Furthermore, our enemies have chosen to strike on this very day, killing both sailors defending us and innocent civilians on the ground,” the Princess continued after a beat, pausing again to fix the camera with a hard stare. “This will not stand. I have taken the Imperial Robes and I will protect you, as is my duty. My first act as your Emperor is to appoint Admiral Jessica Keller as supreme commander of the Imperial Fleet for the duration of the emergency. You will follow orders from her as if from me. Treason will not be tolerated. Admiral Keller?”

  Keller!

  Sigmund’s teeth ground. How had she done this to him? Were there no limits to the evil that woman would do to Fribourg before he had her killed?

  “Sir,” a man’s voice rattled around the silent room. “The broadcast is originating from IFV Amsel.”

  “The Blackbird?” Dittmar rounded savagely on the man. “How is this possible?”

  “Investigating, sire.”

  “Captains of the Imperial Fleet,” Keller began after the camera panned over to her. “You know me. I have given my oath to the new Emperor, and I give you my oath now that we will protect St. Legier together. Further orders are forthcoming, but all vessels are expected to follow my commands without hesitation or question. You will stay on your current stations and defend the planet. If you cannot accept those terms, you have no place in this institution and I expect you to turn over command to a subordinate who is willing to take my orders. This is not negotiable. Now, all hands to battle stations.”

  The signal cut out.

  Sigmund had no doubt it would be looped frequently, at least until he captured those two women and had them shot, possibly on camera so everyone could see the risk they took, thwarting him.

  And worse, he was trapped on the ground. Yesterday, it had made perfect sense to be nowhere near the orbital fortress on the day that it faced devastation. They would be hours just getting enough repairs done to talk to the outside world meaningfully.

  And he could not get aboard a friendly Battleship now without attracting notice, either from the Raider, or Keller and her possible allies, any of whom might take the opportunity to do greater mischief while he was at risk.

  Sigmund unclenched his jaw and sipped coffee to center himself. It would not do to show weakness in front of these men.

  “Get me General Grundman,” he seethed, moving to a small conference room to one side where he could close the sound-proofed door and rant.

  A light was blinking on the secured landline when he was alone.

  “Geoffrey?” Sigmund snarled into the comm.

  “Here, Sire,” the security leader replied soothingly.

  “How could your men miss Keller?” he demanded. “What fools need to be shot for this mistake?”

  There was a small pause at the other end of the line.

  “We believe that Keller took the Princess aboard her flagship secretly this morning,” Grundman replied. “A goodwill tour that just managed to be horribly timed from our standpoint.”

  “Why was I not notified immediately?”

  “Sire, we captured the rest of the Imperial Suite, plus Admiral Wachturm and his family. Other undesirables are being rounded up as the day progresses. There is nobody on the ground that represents a threat right now.”

  “And the Fleet?” Sigmund snarled.

  “The raid will be over soon, Your Majesty,” the Security officer replied. “He cannot carry that many bombs, and will be facing the entire Fleet in the system now. Our deal was always that he would depart after making his point, chased off by loyal forces to help solidify your power base.”

  “And if Keller splits the fleet?”

  “Sire, do you really think these men would follow a woman?” Grundman purred. “Moreover, if the Peace truly holds, how many of these fleets and squadrons will be demobilized by those women, putting these self-same commanders and their clients out of work ashore? No, Keller might lead them for a bit, but they will not hold.”

  “See to it, General,” Sigmund snarled. “I expect no more surprises.”

  He slammed the handset down in his frustration. All of this planning and it might be for nothing. Naught but his own death.

  Still, that one Roughshark had managed to savage the station.

  What could it do to a single Battleship? Quite possibly enough that his loyal elements could finish those two women off for good.

  Sigmund allowed himself a small, petty smile.

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC NOVEMBER 8, 398 ABOARD KALI-MA, ABOVE ST. LEGIER

  Wiley opened the electronic file from Jessica and smiled to herself.

  So many firsts in the lifetime of a little girl named Shiori.

  First woman to qualify in combat Starfighters in the history of Corynthe. First one invited to join a crew. First woman ever acclaimed to Captain.

  First Command Centurion, ever.

  And now, the first woman to join the Fribourg Imperial Navy, as a Captain no less, albeit of an Auxiliary warship sworn into service. Still, another notch. A dangerously-large one, considering.

  She was looking forward to helping Jessica bring Fribourg into the modern age, she, a little girl raised in a ramshackle flat on the edge of Petron City, where the water occasionally ran brown from the faucet.

  But they were still more open-minded than this place, these people.

  She would so enjoy this.

  The words across the top of the file left no doubt as to the seriousness of the situation.

  Warning: Imperial Security Rating O-4.

  Command-level. Line officers only.

  Ha.

  Men.

  Wiley quick-scanned the document and routed it to her full staff, as well as all the pilots.

  Rough technical specifications on the stranger, a so-called Buran Roughshark, at least as much as Imperial Engineers could reverse engineer from destroyed ships and scanner logs. Apparently the firepower equivalent of at least a pocket dreadnaught. Weapons systems. Whatever the hell it was that they used instead of shields. The ability to leap inside the envelope of a planet’s gravity well.

  The latter was impressive, but not impossible. Rocket Frog and Neon Pink could do the same thing, but they had refined the calculations over months of work and then both dieted with iron discipline to maintain their exact baseline mass. A vessel that size would need a super-computer to handle the math.

  There. Yes. A super-computer. An actual, Creator-be-damned-for-all-eternity Sentience flying the vessel. One of the darkest demons ever to cross space. In command of a warship.

  Wiley had already seen the monster bomb the planet below them. Every child of Corynthe grew up with the stories of Lost Earth, bombarded by robot s
pacefleets until no humans survived. Or the other colonies that suffered the same fate, until there were no factories left to build the parts, or make the drugs, or process the food.

  Wiley felt a growl build deep in her stomach.

  Trillions had died as a result. Humanity had almost died. And here was an entire stellar nation founded and run by a Sentience.

  No wonder Fribourg went a little crazy. The Dark Angel himself wouldn’t push more buttons in their culture, if he came down from Heaven and offered them the apple personally.

  “Yan, check your plans against what this thing can do,” she said aloud. “I’ll call Jessica in a few minutes and see what she has planned.”

  “Roger that,” he called, never looking up as he read.

  “Engineering,” Wiley continued, opening a line aft as well as yelling at the folks here on the bridge with her. “I know we don’t have Moirrey today, but there are implications here. Find them. Get me an ace in the hole. And see what we can do if that Mauler hits us.”

  Probably, that Mauler beam would simply snap Kali-ma in half along the gooseneck like a chicken’s wishbone. That would be a more tempting target than the engine and jump clusters aft. And more easily repairable tomorrow, if they survived. Blowing the engines apart might take them all down in one, ugly fireball.

  Assents echoed back. No Corynthe warship had ever fought a pitched naval battle before. They were all carriers that dueled with their squadrons. Or chased pirates off.

  But Corynthe had also never had a warship built this tough, this dangerous. Kali-ma was built to the old Auberon’s standards: launch the wing, and then follow them into battle.

  And there, Wiley knew she had an edge.

  Those fine folks from wealthy places fought battles with expensive Primaries and scads of disposable missiles, like they just grew on trees in pallet loads.

  Kali-ma was all beams. Her squadron were all beams, even Rocket Frog and Neon Pink, who would have to reload after they shot their Archerfish. Wiley was used to having to get close in to make her point, at least in training.

  Plus, Moirrey had given them an edge by tuning the Type-3’s to what Shiori had taken to calling Three-Ex. Extended range focus. Not quite Primaries for range and nowhere near that for damage, but way faster rate of fire.

  Against a teleporting imp, that would be important. Especially when he was going after the Blackbird.

  Her comm chirped. Erik Doležal, Primary Engineer. A big, burly, rough-looking customer whose grandchildren turned him into a giant teddy bear when he wasn’t looking.

  “Boss, got an idea,” he said.

  “Go,” Wiley replied.

  “So, those things absorb incoming fire and explosions, and transform it all to power and feed that into batteries, from what this thing implies, right?”

  “That’s my read, Erik,” Wiley said, paging down to that section and reading along with him.

  “Right,” Erik continued. “When our shields fail, they just collapse and you have to regenerate them. Takes time, and you have to maneuver ’cause you got a hole taking on water. This thing, when they get full, there’s nowhere for all the extra energy to go. Doesn’t look like they can bleed it off. Has to route to engines, jump, or weapon systems.”

  “Okay,” Wiley said, not quite following his line of logic, but she was a pilot, not a physicist.

  “So, timing, boss,” Erik said. “Everybody beams him at the same time. Battleship lights up St. Elmo’s fire if you do that, because y’all hit various shield facings. There’s really only one here. It will all get absorbed at once.”

  “What happens if the bucket gets full?” Wiley asked.

  “Page 938,” he replied. “Looks like that’s how they usually kill them. Overload just keeps filling. Something breaks, and the whole array cascades into a compact, short-lived supernova.”

  “Thank you, Erik.”

  “My job, boss.”

  And he was gone.

  “Comm,” Wiley said. “Get me Jessica.”

  CHAPTER XLIX

  DAY: 313 OF THE COMMON ERA YEAR: 13,445 VESSEL - RS:32G8Y42 – “DANCER IN DARKNESS.” FRIBOURG SYSTEM: “ST. LEGIER”. STATUS: COMBAT MODE

  Vrin studied the tactical as his brain weighed the strategic.

  Dancer In Darkness had sent off all eighteen of his scramjet bombs in six, tight salvos. Mushrooms of fire in the atmosphere below, visible even from space, hashing the same communication channels the Fribourg Empire required, even as they sundered the ties of Empire itself.

  Those fools could give chase, but without reliable comm links, the Imperial Fleet could never coordinate the complex movements necessary to net him.

  His task appeared to be nearly complete, after a navigation feat for the ages, crossing nearly a fifth of the galaxy itself to be here, now, in order to teach these barbarians what it meant to respect a border and their civilized neighbors.

  The Lord of Winter cared little for what you did in your own little mountain valley. When it spilt out and threatened to upset The Holding, you must needs be chastised.

  Hopefully, like a young dog, these Imperials could be trained.

  And there was the crux of it.

  The Lord of Winter’s deal was to support the Usurper, Dittmar, in the hopes that his spleen would be satisfied venting on another of the rabble on the fringe, something called Aquitaine.

  Nobody expected the traitorous fool to actually honor his word for any period of time. Another could be found to replace him, if the time came.

  Either Fribourg would learn, or it would be erased from history. Thus had the Lord of Winter commanded.

  And now, the Usurper was already challenged for his supremacy.

  Vrin was not a student of the fringe cultures, but he did understand that this particular one believed in gender-based aristocracies. A distinctly visible mark of their backwardness that they felt females incompetent by their biological nature.

  Vrin watched the video transmission again, with a running translation across the bottom. He did not need the words. What he wanted was the emotional lading. The surety underneath. The rage. The fears.

  Those tones were there, if you closed your eyes and listened to the odd, flat way both women spoke, barely shifting their voice up or down the scale. Such a strange, a-tonal language.

  “Imperial citizens,” the first woman spoke with a heavy tone that threatened to crack with emotion. “It has dawned a terrible day in the history of the Fribourg Empire. A usurper has attacked the throne and imprisoned the Emperor, my father. As the traitor has also captured my brother and my sister, the Imperial duties must, of needs, fall on my shoulders, by law and custom, making me your Emperor in duty, at least until my father can be freed from captivity.”

  Yes, a young woman, as she appeared. Apparently the youngest child of the ruling family, not yet even considered an adult, at an age when Vrin had already been a promising deck hand.

  She was overwhelmed by the day.

  “Furthermore, our enemies have chosen to strike on this very day, killing both sailors defending us and innocent civilians on the ground.” More emotions, harder, but brittle. Wrought iron, rather than damascene steel. “This will not stand. I have taken the Imperial Robes. My first act as your Emperor is to appoint Admiral Jessica Keller as supreme commander of the Imperial Fleet for the duration of the emergency. You will follow orders from her as if from me. Treason will not be tolerated. Admiral Keller?”

  A pause as the camera panned across the deck.

  The other woman was a generation older. More composed. More sure.

  A Director used to executive power, but riding today atop the restless tiger’s gender-based aristocracy. She could not simply command these men. She must seduce them with guile into following her into battle.

  “Captains of the Imperial Fleet,” the one called Keller spoke. “You know me. I have given my oath to the new Emperor, and I give you my oath now that we will protect St. Legier together. Further orders are forthcoming,
but all vessels are expected to follow my commands without hesitation or question. You will stay on your current stations and defend the planet. If you cannot accept those terms, you have no place in this institution and I expect you to turn over command to a subordinate who is willing to take my orders. This is not negotiable. Now, all hands to battle stations.”

  Vrin opened his eyes as the recording ended. He had heard what he needed to know.

  Both women were putting on a brave front, what historians used to call playing to the galleries, but neither had the surety to move the men commanding other vessels, these male Captains, into a place their culture had left them ill-equipped to grasp.

  “Crew Advocate,” Vrin began ritually. “Define your place.”

  “We are prepared, Director.”

  “Entity Advocate,” Vrin continued. “Speak for your charge.”

  “He is at the top of the scale in all dimensions, Director.”

  “War Advocate,” Vrin concluded. “One final charge, and then home. Prepare your lance and your shield.”

  “We are victory, Director.”

  Vrin’s chair did not lean back more than a few degrees. Nonetheless, he slouched a touch, letting his muscles relax from the rigid solidity that had held him for the last two hours.

  Games of cat and mouse were never fun for the rodent. One false step, one bad calculation, would see Dancer In Darkness accidentally land amidst a squadron of vessels powerful enough to annihilate him before he could recharge the Capriole Drive and flee. Fifteen such leaps had just been that many more chances that something would go wrong.

  Now, one lone vessel had challenged him across the field of battle.

  A Battleship, no doubt, but one badly out of position, without support, and bereft, its only consort some manner of alien carrier platform. And even that was badly ordered, a score of mismatched gnats remaining around the consort in a loose, globular formation, vessel and craft all well removed and somewhat distant from the warship that had raised the Imperial standard and threatened to undo all Vrin’s labors today.